


Secrets and the Single Girl

by AlessNox



Series: Alessnox - A woman's point of view [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Brain Damage, Disability, Drugs, Engagement, F/M, Gen, Gothic Romance, Heterosexual Sex, Horror, Light Bondage, Memory Loss, Post-Season/Series 03, Romance, Scars, Season/Series 03, Secrets, Sex, did you miss me?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-08
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-02-16 13:57:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 32,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2272353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlessNox/pseuds/AlessNox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly seems to be the person who holds everyone's secrets. Sometimes she thinks that she might have one or two too many.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"So, the detective comes in, and he sees all the people on the floor with bullet wounds, and then he picks up a bamboo shoot, and says to the police inspector.  
'These people were killed by a panda!'  
'A panda?' the inspector says, 'How did you get that?'  
and then the detective holds out his phone where he has the Wikipedia article for for pandas up.  
'So?' says the police inspector. 'Why does that article make you think that the killer is a panda?'  
'Because, it says right here that a panda eats, shoots, and leaves'." Tom looked expectantly at Molly giggling a little at his own joke. "He Eats, Shoots, and Leaves... did you get it?"

Molly raised the edges of her mouth in a smile and chuckled lamely, "Oh yes, I get it. A panda. How funny." Suddenly her timer went off, and Molly had never been so glad to have an excuse to get out of a lame first date. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot. My aunt is feeling sick, and I promised to go by and deliver her medicine. So sorry I can't stay for dessert."

"Oh, I ... of course if your aunt is sick I wouldn't..." Tom jumped to his feet suddenly and pulled out Molly's chair almost dumping her on the ground. He steadied her with a hand, and when she rose to her feet and looked up at him, something about his height hit her right in the gut. 'Yes!' her hormones cried, and she swayed back about to fall again. He put an arm around her waist to steady her, and they stayed that way for a moment her chest touching his stomach, before she pushed away from him. His voice was deeper when he spoke again "I hope that I can see you again some time when you don't have an obligation. Would that be okay with you?"

"Yes," Molly says stepping away from the man who is sexy tall, but still too young for her. "Call me." She pulled on her coat and scarf and then picked up her bag, smiling briefly at the brown-haired young man before rushing out of the restaurant.

For a moment there, he reminded her of another tall man of her acquaintance. He had stepped up close to her looking down into her wide eyes and flushed skin.

"What do you need?" she had asked, and he had returned one word.

"You."

How she had kept her knees from buckling then is something that she had never understood. Her face blushed, and she wrapped her scarf tight around it as she walked down the stairs to the tube.

Forty minutes later the nurse led her into the hospital room. The walls were painted a cheery green. The bed angled up so that the dark-haired man could see her as she entered. He smiled.

Molly smiled back at him as she approached the bed. She sat in the chair beside him and said, "Hey you."

The man nodded. There was a hint of stubble growing over his lip and his dark eyes looked her up and down. She blushed. Jim had a way of communicating his thoughts even though he didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. Not anymore. Not since the false bullet, that should have only knocked him out, grazed his vagus nerve."

"So, you seem to be over that cold. How are you feeling today?"

He reached over for the small whiteboard on the table and began to write. [I feel good. How was your date?]

Molly's eye's widened. "How did you know that I was on a date tonight? I know I never told you."

He erased the board, [New scarf and shoes. Lipstick. Hair.]

"You're amazing. I only know one other person who can read me like that, but he's gone."

The man frowned and scribbled something else on the board before holding it up. [Your boyfriend?]

She shook her head. "He was never my boyfriend. You were the closest thing that I ever had to a boyfriend, but that's not important."

[I wish I could remember,] he wrote. Then he erased the board with a cloth and began a long paragraph. He handed it to her.  
[I saw a psychiatrist today. He gave me the effects that I came in with. The wallet, the cards. He thought that seeing them might spur some memories in me, but I don't remember a thing about my former life. It's as if Quincy Hoehn was a stranger.]

Molly stilled, then she put a smile on her face. "That's alright, Quince. You don't have to remember your past. You should be thinking of your future. What do you want to do when you get out of this place?"

[I don't know. I don't know anyplace to go. It's all pictures to me.]

Molly smiled at that. "How about Paris? I've always wanted to go to Paris."

[Why haven't you? It's only across the channel.]

"I don't know? I never really got around to it, and I didn't want to go on my own. That would be too pathetic. A single girl in 'the city of love'."

[I thought Venice was the city of love.]

"See, you remember places. Do you remember ever having been in Venice?"

He frowned and one side of his lip came up in a scowl. [I do have memories of water and things. But they don't make sense. They must be nightmares.]

"You mustn't think of them as real. You have to forget the past if it hurts you. They are only nightmares."

[But they feel real. They hurt.]

Molly reached out and touched his cheek. "I don't want you to be hurt. I don't want you to have to hurt anyone either. You've got to let it go, Jim."

He stared into her eyes and held her wrist so that she wouldn't pull away. She blushed again and removed her hand from his. He picked up the slate and wrote, and when she saw what he had written, she blanched.

[Why did you call me 'Jim'?]

Molly turned her face away and tugged on the edge of her jumper. "It's a sort of nickname that I used to have for you Quincy. It's embarrassing to think that I said that out loud."

[No, I like it,] he wrote. [It fits me better than my real name does. I don't mind if you call me Jim.]

"Alright ...Jim. But I think that it's time that I get back to work. They'll be looking for me." She rose to her feet.

He shook his head violently, and then wrote. [Don't go. Please!]

She smiled and shook off his outstretched hand. "I'll be back to check on you in a few days." She walked to the door turning back to look at him.

His board read [But you had a date, you don't have work tonight.]

"See you soon," Molly said with a wave as she fled the room. She rushed down the hall but was stopped before she could leave.

"Mrs Hooper, can I have a moment of your time?" The bearded doctor asked.

"I have a... I'm expected..."

"It will only take a few moments. Please."

Molly slowly turned and followed the man into the office sitting in the seat in front of a bright wooden desk.

"I really do have to go soon," she said quietly.

"Yes, but I have a few questions for you about our patient. I must ask you, as we have no family on file. Does he have any family that we could contact?"

"Well, Mr. Hoehn didn't have any family."

"He did, however, mention you in his living will. A notice that he wanted his body given to science when he died. What exactly is your relationship with him?"

"Mr. Hoehn was a friend. He toured the facility, liked what he saw. He was going to donate his body to science. He wanted to know that when he died, his body would go to someone who cared."

"And there is no one else?"

"No. Not that I've ever heard of. Is there something wrong?"

"No it's just... given that his initial injury was with a gun, we wondered if there might be more that you could tell us."

"I think it was supposed to be a trick, like in a circus but gone horribly wrong. He had a sack of blood concealed in his hair. He was going to pretend to shoot himself and play dead. I have no idea why, I wasn't there, but when we found him, he had a gun filled with blanks. He must not have realized that the force of the explosion would be strong enough to kill him on its own. Luckily he angled it down far enough that it missed his brain, but the shockwave... well you know about the damage better than I."

"Bad business, playing with guns. That's why we have laws against it. But I'm wondering about what to do with his care. Physically he is recovered about as well as he ever will. He probably will never walk again, but with proper accessories, that should be manageable. It's the amnesia and the brain damage that's the problem. He is progressing, but he may never regain his memory. Also, there are some odd imbalances in his brain chemistry as well as his MRI. I don't think that it is a good idea for him to live alone."

"Well, he can't live with me. I'm just a ... a friend."

"I see. I understand that you wouldn't want to be burdened with dealing with someone who so obviously will be disabled. Even so, you are the only one who is listed by name on his file, and a decision must be reached soon. This is not a long-term care facility."

"What, you mean? Are you going to dump him on the street?"

"No, nothing like that. There are some nursing facilities that might be able to take him. Does he have a home?"

"He told me that he sold everything, but he has money. I know that he still has money in his accounts. He told me that he was going to donate it to Barts when he died."

"We are working on the legal work necessary to get a hold of his funds. This is difficult since he can't remember any of his access codes. But on the strength of your identification, and given the documents in his wallet we should be able to get him situated in transitional housing with daily nurse visits. Or if you can think another institution perhaps one where he came from?"

"That house...the transitional house thing. That's what he wants. He's a very smart man and, he needs his space."

"Brain damage is very serious. We have treatments, but ultimately the brain must repair itself, and the only way to do that is to give it time. Even so, his progress has been very good, and it is not outside of possibility that his entire memory will return in time."

"Ah, wonderful," Molly said rising to her feet. "But, I really must be going now, goodbye." She shook the man's hand and walked briskly out of the office. _A full recovery? God help us all!_

She had found him on the roof after Sherlock had gone, unconscious, but not dead. It was a rare drug that she had found in his blood. A tropical one that killed pain and induced paralysis. When she wheeled him into emergency, they had thought that he was dead. She had cleaned away the fake blood with a cloth, so she knew that he hadn't meant to kill himself. But even the greatest minds can make a mistake. Pain wasn't the only thing you got when you tried to swallow an explosion, even if there wasn't really a bullet in that gun.

She finally got home to find a message from Tom on the phone. He wasn't that smart, but he was worth a second date. Maybe a movie so that she wouldn't have to hear him talk. She lay back on the couch and remembered.

Quincy Hoehn had been a pleasant man with dark greying hair, and a heart condition. They had hit it off when they found out that neither of them had any family. He would come to the morgue to chat with her when he was between treatments. She figured that he might have had a bit of a crush on her, but he wasn't her type. One morning over coffee, he told her his plan to donate his body to the hospital.

"I want you to have it," he had said. "It won't do me any good, and I'd like to know that it was in good hands."

He had died suddenly two days before Sherlock's fall while waiting on a bus. His ID bracelet had him shipped to Barts. She should have informed the police of his death, but she didn't. She thought that he wouldn't mind if they buried him in Sherlock's place.

In the end she didn't have to use him. A better body had presented itself. But she had kept the wallet in his pocket just in case Sherlock needed another identity.

When she first saw Moriarty's body lying on the roof, she thought of letting him die.  
In the end, though, she didn't have to do much of anything. They found the wallet that she had slipped into his pocket, and treated him. Luckily, he was already registered in the system. She had never appreciated how wonderful it was that the Neurologists and Cardiologists had separate staffs.

The cat jumped on her lap and she went to the kitchen to feed it. Then she looked out of the window and caught sight of the moon. It was gibbous, going toward full. It made her think of monsters.

James Moriarty had been a monster, but she didn't see a monster when she looked at the man in that hospital bed. What would he do if he did ever regain his memory? She didn't know. She only knew that she liked Jim. And if he was still a psychopath, what could she say? It was fate, really. Psychopaths had always been her type.


	2. Chapter 2

She opened her eyes and groaned. She hadn't expected to wake up in bed with Tom. She looked at his smooth unscarred back and felt a bit like a child molester. How old was he anyway, twenty-two, twenty-three?

It was the letter that had set her off, a note in the mail saying that her department was coming under review. When Sherlock came back, she knew that her death certificate would come into question, but he would be back then to help. Now she had to find a way not to draw attention to the fact that she had faked his death.

Well, this was what he had asked her for, wasn't it? She said that he could have anything, didn't he? Now she was only a few steps away from a full scale investigation that might end up losing her her license and then her job.

And if she lost her license, who else would hire her? She didn't have family to fall back on, and even if she did, she needed the money to keep paying for Jim's recovery. Jim? Why did she keep calling him by that name? He was James Moriarty, or he had been once. Now he was poor, wounded Quincy Hoehn. She hoped that the real Quince didn't mind the stolen identity. He had been a lovely man. The kind of man that would have been good for her, if he hadn't died. But she had always wanted someone a bit rougher, a bit more dangerous, and she'd got more than her money's worth there. That was why she had started dating Tom in the first place. He was kind, and he was easy.

She covered her eyes with her hand and climbed out of the bed. Then after gathering her clothes off of the floor, she rushed into the bathroom locking the door. She hadn't meant to sleep with him. She just wanted to get drunk, and he had texted just as she was on her way to the bar. She had succeeded in getting wasted, and like a gentleman he had taken her home only to have her maul him like a wildcat when they got there.

She wanted away from here. But, he at least deserved breakfast. She jumped in the shower and washed the smell of sex off of her skin. He was indeed young. He had come three times. She couldn't dare tell him that she hadn't thought of him once during the act. Twice it had been Sherlock, and the last time... She covered her face with her hand again, it had been Jim. Not James Moriarty, or Jim the gay guy, but Jim the man who had posted on her blog. The one that she secretly imagined had a crush on her. She knew now that James had only used her to get close to Sherlock. He had almost admitted it in their fight about it afterward, about passing him his number. But that was fake too wasn't it. He was playing a role, the gay fan with a crush on the famous detective. Reality and fantasy were mixed together. She couldn't tell where one ended and another began. Her face turned sober as she shut off the tap. That last time with Tom, she'd imagined that Jim was touching her, but when she bit her lip to stop herself from crying out, the name that she had almost cried was James.

She knew then that she was one sick woman.

"Hi!" Tom said as she walked into the bedroom in her bathrobe. "Good morning."

"Uhm, yeah...morning. I just need to get my clothes so that I can..."

"Oh, I'm in your way! I can step out ..." Tom said throwing the covers aside as he tried to rise to his feet. Her eyes unconsciously looked down there. before she turned away clutching her knickers to her chest.

"No, I'll just get my clothes and dress in the bathroom. You ...take your time."

She rushed out of the room her neck turning red. _'_ _God! She was such an idiot_ _!'_ After dressing, she cooked some eggs and toast and agonized over whether to brew coffee or tea, before brewing coffee, because she needed something to sober her up. She drank her first cup to wash away the taste of paracetamol looking up as she heard him exit the lav.

He came out doe-eyed and smiling wearing trousers and no shirt. She stared at his bare torso and frowned. He was almost too young for chest hair. When she handed him a cup of coffee, he bent down and kissed her lips. She flushed again, ashamed. He was so young and innocent. She put the eggs and toast on a plate, taking one piece of toast to eat. Maybe he'd stop trying to kiss her if she had food in her mouth.

"I have to go to work this morning," Molly said. "I'm the on-call pathologist today. Take your time eating. Just lock the door when you're done.

She walked to the sink and washed her hands. Then she left the kitchen to get her purse and coat. Tom caught her in his arms as she walked past. He rubbed his hand through her hair and lifted her face to kiss her again.

"You're amazing!" he said, "When will you be back. I can't wait to be with you again. I've never felt like this before."

"No, Tom. You can't wait here. It will be hours...all day."

"I don't care, I'll wait for years."

"You can't. Not here, someone might come."

"Who? your parents? I thought that you said that they were dead."

_Sherlock might come._ "No not them, I just meant...we should go to your place. Dinner maybe later tonight?"

"My place? I'll have to get rid of my flatmate, but...yeah. We can have pizza."

"Great, that will be great. I must go now. I'll be late."

He tried for another kiss, but she pushed away from him so that it landed on the edge of her forehead. She put on her coat and grabbed her bag and keys off of the counter. "Just, don't stay too long...the neighbors might... see you... see you later."

"I'll count the hours till..."She didn't hear the rest because she let the door slam in his face as she rushed out of the flat.

She needed help. She needed to find a way to stop the investigation. She pulled out her phone and stared at it. There was a number. Sherlock had given it to her in case she needed to contact him. It was a safe number to pass information to if she needed help while he was away. She'd never used it, but as her panic reached manic levels she decided to try. She pushed the button and held it up to her ear as she hid in the stairwell. The phone line clicked open but the person on the other side of the line said nothing.

"Hello. This is Molly Hooper, and I need some help."

Silence

"Sherlock told me to call this number if I ever had trouble because of...you know. Hello? is Sherlock there?"

"No, Miss Hooper, he is not. This is Mycroft Holmes. How may I assist you?"

"Oh, of course, you would be the one to call," she said. "I have a little problem and I need your help."

"I will send a car to your flat. It should arrive in about fifteen minutes,"

"Thank you," she said, "but can you have it meet me at the coffee shop on the corner. I'd like to avoid notice if that's all right with you."

"Certainly, Miss Hooper. I look forward to your visit."

She walked out of the flat and rushed away. It wouldn't do for Tom to see her climbing into a black car. He still thought that she was ordinary. She had tried so hard to be special only to have people take one look at her and think her ordinary. Now she wanted to look ordinary or perhaps even invisible.

She walked to the coffee shop, and then stood in the recessed doorway looking back the way she'd come for fear that Tom would see her. She had barely stood there for five minutes when a black car pulled up and a woman opened the door to let her in.

It was only after she had climbed in to sit beside the woman, who was dressed very smartly with black pumps and a short black and white patterned dress, that Molly realized that what she was doing was a very bad idea. Sherlock had told her how powerful her brother was in the secret circles of the government, but she hadn't really believed it. Now as she rode in a car with mirrored windows, sitting beside a woman with perfect hair, killer lipstick, and quite possibly a gun in her hand bag, Molly realized that he wasn't exaggerating. She was going to ask him to draw attention away from the death certificates because of Sherlock's faked one, but if he looked too close, he might find out about Jim.

It had been compassion and perhaps a bit of madness that had led her to do what she'd done, but that's probably not how Mycroft Holmes would see it if he found out that Moriarty was still alive. She looked down at the handbag wondering if a gun could really fit in there. The woman noticed her glance, and smiled at her. Molly's mouth went dry. If Mycroft Holmes thought that she was working for James Moriarty she might not come of this visit alive.


	3. Chapter 3

She had expected to go to a government office, or at least a nice cafe, but as they drove through more and more derelict regions of the city, she began to think that her assassination theory might be more likely. They passed what seemed to be a set of abandoned council flats and stopped at a gate which opened for them. They drove through to a warehouse. Someone inside opened the door and they drove into a building that was mostly abandoned.

The woman stepped out of the car, coming around to open the door for her. She followed, looking up at the chains swinging from the ceiling. She imagined herself hanging there. She began to wonder who exactly was Mycroft Holmes, and what was he doing meeting her here? The woman opened a door, and stood aside. She walked in expecting the woman to follow her, but she closed the door behind Molly and stayed outside.

Molly turned back to face Mycroft Holmes. He was sitting in a leather arm chair. A metal folding chair was in front of him. He gestured for her to take a seat. She looked around the room surprised at the emptiness of it. Then she wondered who had carried the chair all the way out here into this empty room.

"You are wondering why we are meeting here instead of someplace more... formal. It is because you and I know something that almost no one else knows, and I would rather that our meeting remain... private. Now, Miss Hooper, you had a concern?"

Molly walked over to the chair and sat down. She placed her bag first on one knee and then the other before deciding to place it on the floor. "Well Sher..."

"It's best if we don't say his name out loud. I know who it is you are referring to. Go on."

Mycroft Holmes was looking at her in the same steady way that Sherlock would look at a body. It unnerved her. Molly sat up a bit straighter. "Well, uhm... I received a note. There's to be an investigation."

"About the increased mortality rates in UK hospitals, yes," he said nodding.

"Well, I'm in records and I... well he... there might be some question. That is, if someone comes asking... there might be some irregularity."

He glared at her even more, if that were possible. "What irregularity exactly?" he asked.

"Well, you know that... Sher... that he... I signed the death certificate."

"Did you make an error in the form?"

"No."

"And you followed all proper procedures in the reporting of the death."

"Well, yes but..."

"Then I don't see the problem, Miss Hooper. They are interested in statistical data only. The person of which we speak was not a patient in said hospital at the time. He was brought into the hospital when he was already dead. He would not be considered in the statistics of which they will be examining, however, if it would make you feel better for me to place an agent in the investigatory team."

"No! no! I don't want to draw any attention. I just was afra... uh... concerned. I just don't know what to do if they start asking questions."

"They won't ask questions about the document if you don't act suspicious. Do you think that you can do that Miss Hooper? I can't tell you how sensitive this matter is. It is of the utmost importance that no one know about this. Lives depend on it. It won't become a problem will it Miss Hooper."

"No, I just... I just wanted to bring it to your attention."

Mycroft sat back and crossed his legs. "Noted. Thank you Miss Hooper."

She looked at him, and then looked down. It seemed that he wouldn't be investigating any more than was necessary. She need not have worried. Perhaps she would get out of here alive.

Mycroft Holmes placed his hands together under his chin and looked over at her. "Your help in this matter has granted you my sincerest gratitude. Be assured that this is worth a great deal. Is there anything else of concern Miss Hooper?"

"No."

"Good," he said with a nod. He pulled his phone out of his pocket then and touched a key. The door opened, and the woman walked in. "And might I congratulate you on your new relationship. I'm sure that the young man will be useful in... relieving your stress."

_Relationship? How did he? Of course Sherlock's brother would be able to read her as easily as he could_. She started to blush, as she rushed through the door past the woman who smiled knowingly at her.

As he had said, the investigators were only interested in aggregate data from people who had stayed at least one full day in the hospital. If any of the investigators worked for Mycroft, she saw no sign of it. Even so, she decided not to do anything that might draw attention to Jim. The investigation lasted two weeks. During that time she made no visits to him. This, and her desire to stay away from the office as much as possible in case she let something slip, led her spend lots of time with Tom.

Tom was sweet and... enthusiastic. He apparently found her body irresistible, and after thirty five years of being a plain Jane, she was enjoying the difference very much. Maybe it wasn't so bad to allow herself a little _'stress relief'_ as Mycroft Holmes named it. She was having absolutely phenomenal amounts of sex.

They held hands at the train station as he waited to go on a trip to visit his cousins. They had dogs, and did some kind of physical activity out in the North somewhere. The two of them had spent the night saying goodbye, and the morning. He had finally taken his hands off of her long enough to go home and pack before meeting her here for a little last minute cuddling. He wrapped his hand around her hand-knitted scarf and looked down at her.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too, Tom."

"It's just. These last few weeks. It's been ... really, really good."

"Yes," she said looking around him to see when the train was leaving.

"I wanted to ask you... that is to say... Molly, I have something to ask you."

She looked up at his earnest eyes. "What? What is it you wanted, Tom?"

"Molly..." The whistle blew.

"Your train! We'd better hurry or you'll miss it." She started to walk away, but his hand on her scarf held her back.

"Molly, I wanted...I wanted to ask you..."

"Oh! My scarf? You wanted to ask if you could keep my scarf? Of course. I should have knitted you one by now, not that I've had much time to knit, but the train is about to go. Hurry."

Molly picked up the bag and rushed to the train. She placed the bag on the floor of the train car, and when he bent over to kiss her, she draped the scarf around his neck. "Have fun with your family," she said kissing him on the cheek before stepping back onto the platform as the train began to pull away.

He looked back at her, face pressed against the window. She waved until the train turned the corner, and then she left. She looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and then she took a bus that went away from Barts and her flat. It had been far too long since she had visited Jim.

 


	4. Chapter 4

She took a lint brush out of her pocket and brushed off her coat once she had stepped off of the bus. She didn't want to leave too much evidence of what she had been doing. Sherlock would have known about Tom from a hair. It was all in vain though. She rang the doorbell and Jim opened it. He was looking healthy if a bit gaunt. He looked up at her face and then moved his eyes up and down her body once. Then his smile changed to something expressionless as he turned and wheeled away from her. Molly followed, closing the door.

The place was small, but pleasant. One of a row of tiny flats on the ground floor designed for long-term care. The floor was wood with no rugs or carpeting. There was no couch, but a wooden chair had been set out for her next to a table with two glasses and a pot for tea. He must have turned on the kettle when he heard the bell. How long had he been waiting for a visit?

She hung her coat on the hook by the door and set down her bag before walking over to him and sitting down in the chair. Jim was facing away from her. He was doing something with the computer. He pulled out what looked like a mouse with a long cable and placed it against his neck near his Adam's apple. Then he stared fixedly at her with a face as blank as she had ever seen it.

She smiled at him and said, "Quincy, how have you been?"

"Why don't you call me Jim?" said a mechanical sounding voice coming from the computer speakers. She jumped.

"What? What was that?" Molly asked looking around nervously?

"You used to always call me Jim. I like it. Call me by that name."

"What? How? How are you making that noise?"

The first hint of a smile touched his lips. "Do you like it? My paralysis is not total, you know. I found that I can use this to make sounds from the vibrations in my voice box."

"Why Quince, that's amazing! Did you make that yourself?"

"I told you to call me Jim," he said and the blank expression returned.

"I'm sorry, Jim. It's just... this is so wonderful! You are able to talk now. That was so clever, so brilliant. I'm so happy for you!"

"Are you?"

"Yes, of course I am. I'm so sorry that I haven't come, but their has been this investigation at work, and I've been so busy."

"So, did you miss me?" he asked with smirk. The mechanical voice didn't have the nuance of a real one, so she couldn't tell if he was happy or angry.

"Of course I missed you, Jim."

"So, tell me about him. It is Tom, isn't it? The one that you had the date with before?"

"How did you... I don't remember telling you his name."

"I saw it on Facebook."

"Facebook? I don't remember you being on Facebook. And I don't remember friending you."

"But Tom did. Did you know that he's changed his status to _'in a relationship'_?"

"Oh, well... I don't really think it's that serious."

"Oh, but I do. His posts have become increasingly more passionate. I think that I might be getting a little jealous."

Molly smiled. "It's not like that, Jim. Tom is very nice, and there is no denying that there is some kind of ...physical connection, but it shouldn't affect my friendship with you."

Jim stared at her very hard then as if he was trying to look into her brain. She tilted her head wondering what he was thinking. His hand was holding the device tighter and tighter. She thought for a moment that he might break it. Then the whistle blew. She turned to watch the steam shooting out of the kettle.

"I'll get it," Molly said standing, but he put out his hand to stop her. He placed the voice device down on the table and rolled over to the kitchen with the teapot. Then he locked the chair, turned off the kettle. Put the tea pot on the counter, and lifted the kettle over it to pour the water into the pot. He placed the kettle back on the stove and then placed a cosy on his lap before rolling over to the table with the tea.

"My Jim, I'm so pleased to see you getting on so well."

He looked sideways at her and then rolled over to retrieve his voice tool. He placed it on his throat. "I like my independence," he said looking at her fixedly. "If I could get to an electronics store, I might be able to make one that's wireless. Then I won't need to be so close to the computer to talk."

"Why, that's really amazing Jim. Just think of what it would mean if you sold these. So many people could be helped by it."

He tilted his head to the side and lowered his eyelids. "I don't know about _'helping people'_ but it's a good idea. I might make some money that way. I could make enough money for our trip to Paris."

"Oh Jim, I wasn't serious. You don't have to take me to Paris."

He rolled up beside her chair then and reached over her lap to place his hand on her far hip. Sitting down, his face was even with her own. He stared at her with an blank expression, before showing her his teeth in what seemed a bit like a snarl. Then he looked down at her lap and up again repeating his ghastly smile. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. He rolled his chair back then and put the device to his neck.

"You aren't wearing your scarf."

Molly touched her neck before realizing how guilty she must look. "I... no I'm not..."

Jim stared at her a moment and then rolled over to the table. "The tea should be ready now, I suppose." he said before pouring her a cup.

After two cups, and a conversation made up entirely of sentences of fewer than four words, Molly decided to take her leave. She put down her cup and rose to her feet.

"Well, I'd best be getting back now."

She leaned over to pat him on the shoulder only to have him grab her arm with his left hand and pull her down so that her face was level with his own. He glared at her, and then he leaned forward capturing her lips in a rough kiss. She opened her mouth in shock and he went deeper, holding her arm with fingers so tight that it left marks even through her jumper.

He pulled away then and let her go, reaching out to pick up the voice box which he placed against his neck while he glared at her steadily.

"Don't take so long to visit, next time," he said. His head tilted forward as he glared up at her, the light of the window shining off of his dark slicked-back hair so that she could see only a hint of the scar.

She stepped back breathing heavily, shocked by the kiss. "I...well... until later, Jim."

"See you again very soon, Molly," The mechanical voice said as she put on her coat and opened the door. She closed the door behind her and walked away, not turning back. Refusing to look back to see the face that she knew was looking at her through the window. The face of the man who had glared at her with the intensity of a murderer. The face of a man who frightened her far more than she was willing to admit. But the thing that she was truly afraid to admit, was how much he excited her.

The bus was approaching as she rushed up to the bus stop. It seemed as if she couldn't regain her breath. When it pulled up, and she caught her reflection in the glass, she was shocked to see that she had been smiling.


	5. Chapter 5

Molly pulled the covers up to her neck and shut her eyes tight. She took a breath and peeked at the clock with one eye. It was three fifteen in the morning. She had gone to bed at eleven, but she hadn't been able to sleep. She would relax only to wake with her heart racing as she remembered Moriarty's blank face. It was the same sort of face that he had worn during the trial.

She hadn't gone herself, but she had watched all of the coverage. Sherlock had told her that Jim was really James Moriarty, but somehow she couldn't believe that he would go to the trouble to date her just to get to Sherlock. Watching the trial, she could see that it was indeed Jim, but different. He wore bespoke suits and stood with a casual arrogance and thinly veiled malevolence that made her skin crawl. To think that a criminal mastermind had sat on her couch and watched Glee. It was bizarre. It was disturbing beyond belief.

Now that criminal was living a life under an assumed name that she had arranged for him. He didn't know who he was yet, at least she didn't think so, but ... he had insisted that she call him Jim. Maybe he had remembered all of it. Maybe he was toying with her. Games were his style, after all.

No, he couldn't have remembered everything, otherwise he would have left behind that humble flat for some place more grand. He would have called in contacts wouldn't he? He certainly wouldn't be talking about taking her to Paris. Would he?

No, she was certain that his memory had not returned. Then again, his personality might return, and that had been dangerously unstable. She hadn't seen the body of the old woman that he had killed. There hadn't been enough left over to scrape into a casket, but she'd seen some of the other victims of the explosion that Moriarty had caused. One young woman with a crushed skull. A teen with a hole torn through his chest. How could someone who had so viciously killed be trusted?

Why had she believed that she could keep such a secret to herself? If Moriarty remembered who he was, what would he do then? Wouldn't it make everything that Sherlock was attempting come to naught? And where was Sherlock anyway? He had told her something about his friends being in danger, and he had left the country to hunt down the rest of Moriarty's men. But it had been well over a year now, and she hadn't heard a thing from him.

Molly turned on her side and placed the pillow over her head as she tried to go back to sleep. She tried to think of peaceful things. Of rose gardens and toy boats on the serpentine. She imagined herself in the park. The wind blowing through the trees. The leaves casting shadows across her as she sat on a blanket. It was a picnic, yes with China plates and a teapot balanced on a yellow picnic basket. And a man in a wheelchair staring at her with a perfectly emotionless expression. She breathed in sharply and sat up. It was three twenty-five AM.

It had been a risky move saving Jim's life, she had known that from the first, but she couldn't just let him die. She just couldn't. But if he remembered. If he got out of control again. She had no way to stop him. She couldn't keep this from Sherlock. It would be too dangerous. She lay down on her back and looked up at the ceiling weighing the risks in her mind. Then she sat up and walked into the living room to get her phone out of her purse.

She moved Toby off of her chair, and then she dialed the number for Mycroft Holmes. There was a ring, and another ring. It was the fifth ring before a female voice answered. "Hello," she said. "Miss Hooper is it?"

"Yes. It's me."  
"How may I help you, Miss Hooper?"  
"I need to talk to Mycroft Holmes."  
There was a moment of silence and then she spoke. "He's not available at the moment. Would you like to leave a message?"  
"When will he be ... available?"  
"Mr Holmes might be unavailable for some time."  
"How much time?"  
"I can't say. He's involved in some very delicate negotiations at the moment. Is is something that I might help you with? Mr Holmes has given you a priority classification."

"Oh, really? That's good... I guess."

"What is worrying you, Miss Hooper?"

"Um, why do you think that I'm worried?"

"Well, it is three thirty in the morning, and you seem to be at home and not under duress. It is only logical."

"Yes, of course. I wasn't thinking."

"So, how may I be of assistance, Miss Hooper."  
Molly paused. She might have been able to mention Moriarty to Mycroft Holmes. She still wasn't sure, but she might have done it, however, she absolutely couldn't tell his assistant.

This wasn't the kind of thing to be delegated. Molly was sure that Mycroft had a plan in place should Moriarty be found, but it probably involved putting a bullet in his skull. Despite her fears, she didn't want Jim dead.

"Miss Hooper."

The woman on the other end of the phone was waiting. She had to give her a reason why she had called that wouldn't raise suspicion. What could be so important that she'd call in the middle of the night?

"My boyfriend, Tom," Molly said.

"Yes?"

"I don't know very much about him. Can you tell me? That is... can you do a background check on Tom?"

"Do you have any evidence to suggest that he might not be as he seems?"

"No, it's just given my last boyfriend, I thought that it would be worth investigating."

"I understand your concerns. We will begin checking immediately. You will get a report by the end of the day."

"You don't have to go out of your way."

"Don't worry yourself. It's taken care of. Good Morning, Miss Hooper."

"Good night," Molly said as the phone went dead. She put her phone down on the table and yawned. Then she turned on the telly and put on Glee. She didn't think that she was going to get back to sleep again tonight anyway.

Later that day at work, she looked more dead than the woman getting the autopsy. She wasn't young enough to stay up all night anymore. She dozed off at her desk during her lunch break, and by three, she had to sneak into a spare room to have a nap. She woke guiltily at five thirty and checked over her desk before leaving for the day.

There was a text on her phone from a blocked number telling her to go to an address near Greenwich Park. She contemplated the logic of obeying a direction from an unknown source before realizing that Sherlock wouldn't contact her any other way. She found herself outside a house with a red door. She walked up to the door and went inside. There was a pleasant woman behind a desk. She looked up when she saw her.  
"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes, that's me."  
"Your party will meet you in practice room number three." She pointed down a hallway. Molly glanced down the hall, and then she walked down it. She was in a place where musicians came to practice. She could hear the sound of music coming out of some of the rooms. She saw the sign for room number three, and she walked inside. It was empty except for two chairs and a small desk. She sat down in the chair and waited. A few minutes later the door opened and the woman from the black car walked in. Molly tried to hide her disappointment that it was not Sherlock, but from the look that the woman gave her, she hadn't succeeded very well.

The woman carried a violin case. She sat it on the other chair and opened it. There was a mp3 player and a speaker inside. She took it out of the box and set in on the desk, pushing a button to make it play.

The room filled with the sound of someone playing scales on the violin. The woman went back to the case and pulled out a file that she handed to Molly. She leaned over and talked quietly in her ear.

"Take as much time as you need to read it. The tape will play for up to four hours. When you are done, wait for a break in the music to stop the tape. Then put both the tape and the file back into the case and close it. Leave it here. Someone will retrieve it."

She rose then, and walked out of the room.

Everything about Tom was in this file. There were copies of his school records, employment reports. Family background, interests, contacts, previous girlfriends, and even an analysis of his psychology by an independent Psychiatrist. She was very interested to see on the bottom of the sheet that he tested negative for Psychopathic Personality Disorder. She sighed in relief. God knows that no one else that she had fancied in the last few years would have passed.

She closed the file and waited for the music to pause before stopping the tape. Then she placed the file and the music player inside, closing the case and leaving to go back to her flat.

She had just opened the door and turned to hang up her coat when arms grabbed her from behind. She threw her elbow back hitting the attacker in the gut only to notice a familiar scarf pass by her shoulder. She turned to see Tom bent over clasping his stomach.

"Remind me never to try to surprise you again," he said with a groan.

"Tom! Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. He said standing while giving his stomach one more rub. "I brought you some flowers."

Molly turned toward the table to see a vase of pink flowers tied with a large bow.

Thank you," Molly said. "You are the sweetest!"

She kissed him on the cheek, but he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her up off of her feet before kissing her on the lips.

"I missed you," Tom said holding her tight. Then he kissed her again. As they made their way back to her couch, Molly couldn't keep herself from remembering Jim's mechanical voice saying something similar.

"Did you miss me?"  
She shuddered.

Tom saw it and thought she was cold. He threw a blanket over her shoulders and pulled her up close beside him. She lay her head on his chest.

"Not a psychopath," she whispered.

"What was that?" Tom asked.

"Nothing," Molly said snuggling in closer.


	6. Chapter 6

 

They were in the queue at a sandwich shop when she saw a discarded newspaper with Moriarty's photograph in it. She rushed over and grabbed the paper off of the table. For one horrific moment she had thought that it was Jim in the photo, but then she noticed that he was standing on his feet. She recognized the photo then as one from the trial. She sighed in relief. Tom walked over beside her.

"What is it?"

"Moriarty. The Richard Brook scandal!"

"What?"

"You know the trial of Moriarty? The theft of the crown jewels and the Bank of England."

"When was that?"

"A couple of years ago. You remember?"

He shook his head, "I was never into that kind of thing. The news is just depressing."

"You haven't heard of Richard Brook?"

Tom shook his head.

"What about Moriarty? Sherlock testified at his trial."

"Sherlock who?"

Molly's mouth fell open. She walked back into line carrying the newspaper and feeling every year of their age difference. She held the paper over her face to cover her surprise and read that Richard Brook was now known to be a fake identity, and that Sherlock Holmes had been cleared of all suspicions.

Who had done it? she wondered. Someone had to research the facts and bring the evidence together to get Sherlock's name cleared. Who? Was it Mycroft? Perhaps that was why he had been unavailable. It didn't seem to be his style though. That was more like the kind of work that Inspector Greg Lestrade would do. It had been ages since she had seen any of the Scotland Yard people. It was Sherlock who had brought them to Barts. He refused to do his research anywhere else.

Molly smiled as she remembered Sherlock saying, "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." The memory alone was enough to make her blush right down to her roots.

After lunch, Molly hurried off to work. She wanted to know if she had any messages from Sherlock. There was nothing from him in her locker, her desk, or her phone. She did, however, have a message from the bank. The payment for Jim's stay this month had been returned. She called the bank, but they referred her to the hospital who said that it had already been paid by Mr Hoehn himself.

That afternoon, she left work early to visit Jim. When he answered the door, she was surprised by his appearance. Jim had dyed his hair and eyebrows blond. He looked completely different. She almost didn't recognize him at all.

"Jim?" she asked.

But then he grinned at her confusion, and she knew him. She would recognize that crooked smile anywhere. He nodded his head toward the back inviting her in. Then he turned his wheelchair and rolled away. She closed the door and followed him inside.

When she turned to hang up her coat and scarf on the hook, she noticed that he had bought himself a new coat. It was short and black, a designer brand. Where had he got the money? It was with trepidation that she walked into the room to find that Jim had redecorated since her last visit.

The computer desk was different. It was longer, and there was an extra computer on it. Beside it stood a low table containing an array of tools laid out in meticulously straight rows. The tea table was out just as it had been before with a tea pot and two cups on it, but there was now a wicker chair beside it instead of the hard wooden one. The chair had a rounded back and a white fluffy pillow seat. It looked very comfortable. It also looked like it would be impossible for Jim to sit in. She hesitated for a moment before sitting down in it.

Jim did some typing, and then he picked up a small disk of plastic and strapped it around his neck like a necklace before turning to face her.

"Hello," he said.

The voice coming from the computer was still mechanical but it sounded warmer, a little more human. He must have been working on it. It was closer to his own voice in tone. It made her shiver.

"Jim," she said with a forced lightness to her voice, "Your hair ... it's ...different. I like it, but why did you change it?"

"I was tired of the old color."

He studied her with his mouth closed and his head tilted to one side.

"A lot has changed since I was last here," she said.

"Then you should come more often," he replied. " You're still dating Tom, I see."

"Well, yes. How did you know?"

"I have my ways," he said with a cunning smile. It was disconcerting how he could talk with his mouth closed.

"So... You seem to have made some new friends."

"Why do you say that, Molly?"

"Well, I don't suppose that you could carry all of this yourself. And ... there's the new chair."

He raised one eyebrow at her. "Yes, I've 'made friends' with an engineer. I messaged him online and he found my suggestions... very useful. He loaned me some of his equipment so that I could continue working on my voice. The chair though, I bought that for you. I wanted you to feel comfortable here." He rubbed his hand up and down the inside of his thigh while he talked. She found herself glancing down at his hand. She forced herself to look at his face only to find him staring fixedly at her. "I'd like for the two of us to spend... much more time together."

Molly furrowed her brow. Was that sexual innuendo? The computer voice sounded flat, but the way that he stared at her ... It was very intense. He was very intense. She sucked in a breath and lowered her eyes. His smile grew even wider.

"Your rent!" she squeaked. "They told me that you had paid it?"

"Yes. My money came through. It is official, I am legally Quincy Hoehn now."

'What does he mean by that?' Molly thought. 'Does he know that he wasn't Quincy before?'

"Thank You, by the way," Jim said. "I owe my new life to you. You made all of this possible."

"No, no, I was just being a friend."

"Then you are a dear friend. A dear...dear...friend."

His hand circled higher and Molly felt her face flush.

"I've also been making money."

"That's wonderful! What have you been doing?"

"Consulting."

Molly stiffened and her voice lowered a bit. "Consulting about what?"

"Design, computers. I seem to have a knack with them."

Molly glanced nervously up at him, "Have you... regained any of your memory?"

He frowned. "No, but I've been exploring my talents. Finding out what I know, and what I don't know. It's strange really. I'm not at all like the records say that I am. I find that I have talents for all sorts of things. Things that I never would have guessed at."

"Talents? For what? What have you been doing?"

"Oh, this and that. There are some things I haven't had a chance to test out yet. Perhaps you'll be able to help me with that."

His voice was flat, and he hadn't said anything particularly suggestive, but for some reason, Molly felt decidedly hotter. She pulled her hair out of the band letting it fall around her cheeks in hopes that it would hide the blush there. When she looked up, Jim's head was tilted forward. His eyes flicked up to hers and she grinned nervously.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked, "I'm sorry, I only have tea. I know that you prefer coffee."

"I do prefer coffee, but... how did you know that? We've only ever had tea together. Did you remember that... from before?"

Jim made a sudden jerk with his head and he frowned. Then he looked up and smiled at her. It looked oddly wrong on his face, as if he had practiced the smile in the mirror beforehand.

He rolled his chair forward until their knees were touching. Then he grabbed both of her hands placing them on his knee. He maneuvered himself a bit closer then and covered her hands with his own as he pressed them harder against his thigh. "I still plan to take you to Paris," he said rubbing his left hand up and down her arm.

Her neck turned red. "You do know that I'm dating Tom, don't you?" Molly said embarrassed and excited at the same time. "You, I mean, we ... we're friends."

"Yes," he said. "We are very good friends, And I haven't thanked you enough for all that you've done for me." Jim squeezed her wrists tightly with one hand as he reached up with the other and touched her cheek.

Molly was blushing all over now. Jim's smile fell away then and something darker took its place. Molly was breathing heavily. She leaned forward in her chair as Jim's hand traced across her shoulder and down her side. His head tilted and his eyes wandered across her body. Then he stared at her throat as if he might bite it before taking her hand in his and lifting it to his lips to kiss. A moment later he sucked her fingers into his mouth, licking her fingertips.

Molly jumped. Something low inside her clenched in surprise. She tried to say something, but suddenly her mouth didn't seem to work. She simply gaped at him as he nipped at her wrist before turning her hand around and licking curving figures across her palm.

"I think that I might have been good at this," the computer said as he took her thumb into his mouth. She could feel the vibrations that he was making to speak and it was strange how he could do both at the same time. She found herself leaning in closer.

It should have felt gross, but instead it felt incredibly erotic. Molly should have objected, but she was off balance, literally as well as figuratively, because he only had to tug once on her arm to make her fall head first into his lap.

It was the chair that saved her in the end. Her foot got caught in one of the holes in the wicker chair. He tried to pull her up to sit on his lap, but he couldn't because her foot was trapped. Their tug of war caused her and the wicker chair to fall over onto the floor. She had to roll onto her back and point her toe to get her foot out. Then she crawled on her knees and reached through the hole to fish out her shoe.

_Not very sexy_ , she thought as she rose awkwardly to her feet with only one shoe on. Needless to say, the moment was gone. When she looked up, Jim was back in his old place beside the desk.

"Well, uhm..." she said. "I think that I'd better be going now. Good night, Jim."

She turned and rushed from the room grabbing her coat and scarf and stepping outside to blush away from his piercing stare.

She let herself just stand there for a moment cooling in the breeze before she finally pulled her coat and scarf around her. She jumped then at the sound of something heavy crashing down inside. She glanced back at the door. Then she walked away from the flat as quickly as she could.

What had she been thinking? The last thing that she needed was to complicate this with something physical. It was just that... Jim confused her, and his tongue! No, she wasn't going to even consider... that. She put on her gloves as she stood waiting at the bus stop and said.

"I have a nice, normal boyfriend who is NOT a psychopath, and I like it that way!"

Perhaps, if she said it to herself enough times, it might eventually become the truth.


	7. Sherlock!

 

Tom had wanted to stay over that evening, but she had sent him away. He had sulked but she had been firm. She had to get up at four the next morning to do the early shift.

"Why are you taking extra hours? I miss you. Our new puppy misses you."

"I'm sorry, Tom, but I need the money."

"If it's the rent for this place that's bothering you then perhaps...you could move in with me."

"Move in with you? But Tom, you have a flatmate."

"Not for much longer. I was going to surprise you, but I just signed a lease on a new flat. So there should be no more awkward interruptions. It's near a park. We can walk Jonesy in the mornings. And if you want to, you could ... well...do you want to move in together?"

"But...Toby. Cats don't like to be moved. They get outside and get lost."

"But if we brought his bed and his favorite cat toys he could get used to it."

"But you have a dog."

"We have a dog. You promised to help me raise it, and if you put a cat and a dog together when the dog is young, then they can learn to be friends. We watched the video about it on line, remember?

"Yes, that's true... I just. I don't know."

"Just think about it. I haven't moved all my things in yet. You can change it around to look however you like. I... well... I think that it would be grand for us to live together."

"Well, I guess... I mean. I'm happy for you. Your own flat. It's wonderful, Tom!"

They had kissed then, and it had taken another hour to say goodbye. That night as she lay alone in her bed, Molly remembered Jim.

"I don't really think it's that serious," she had told him.

"Oh, but I do," he had replied in his emotionless computer voice.

Molly shivered.

Jim was a problem that Molly didn't know what to do about. He was getting better, and she was happy for him. He had been so sick for so long. She had thought for a while that he would never be able to live alone, but now he was doing so well. She should be happy, but it just filled her with unease. They had said that the brain damage was likely permanent, and part of Molly was relieved. She had thought that perhaps with half a brain Jim would be more like a normal person. It seemed, however, that Jim had been so smart that he was still a genius even with only half a brain.

She forced herself to sleep, and dragged herself to work Sunday morning to cover the emergency shift. Jim's private hospital hadn't come cheap, and she was still a bit in debt because of it. At least now she finally had a chance to make that money back.

It was a relatively quiet work day, thankfully, and Molly had gone to her locker to get ready to leave when she saw him in her locker mirror. She swiveled around and stared.

Sherlock was back!

It had been so long, and suddenly he was there looking like every fantasy that she had ever dreamed. Well, the ones that he was clothed in, at least.

He stared down at her, his blue scarf wrapped around his neck. My God! he had forgotten how handsome he looked! He glared down at her, and she sucked in a breath. Her heart had skipped a beat.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"Hello Molly," he said.

And for a moment she was speechless. His voice! She had thought that she had memorized the timber of his voice, but she had forgotten how deep it could get. In the long months since she had last seen him, she had reasoned that it was only logical to have helped Sherlock fake his death because he was a friend. Even so, she had worried that losing her career might have been too much for him to ask of her. Looking up at his face again after so long removed all her doubts.

"Oh yes!" she said.

There was nothing she wouldn't do if he was the one asking her to do it.

"Sherlock! Are you back? Are you finally back?"

"Yes, finally. I'm back."

Later that night she lay in bed simply remembering the sound of him, his height, the way he walked. Oh, good God he was hot!

He had come to see her first, after his brother that is, and of course, John. He said that John wasn't pleased about him faking his death. She hadn't been surprised. John had been so devastated by Sherlock's loss. It had broken her heart to see him there at the funeral. No, he wouldn't recover from that easily, but he would come around eventually. He had to. He loved him too much to stay angry forever.

Molly sighed.

It had been so long. Molly had forgotten what it was like to be second-best. Well at least he didn't ignore her anymore. The way that Sherlock's buttons had strained against his shirt. Oh!

That evening when Tom came to pick her up for dinner, she couldn't help being a bit disappointed. Tom was almost plain by comparison. He was dressed very nicely though. She had helped him buy some clothes that she thought might suit him. It was only now, as she saw him sitting across from her in her favorite restaurant, that she realized that she had subconsciously bought him clothes that made him look like Sherlock. She blushed imagining what it would be like if it was him across from her instead of Tom. She tried to hide her flush by taking another bite of her chocolate mousse cake. My goodness this tastes good.

"My goodness this tastes good, Tom. Thank you, for taking me out to my favorite restaurant today. What's the occasion?"

"I... well... there is a reason that I brought you here tonight."

"Oh yes, what is it?"

Tom stood up awkwardly and walked over to stand beside her chair. She looked up at him curiously, wondering if he was going to pull her to her feet, but instead he kneeled down beside her. It took her five entire seconds before she realized what it meant that he was kneeling beside her on one knee.

"Oh Tom!"

"Molly Hooper, will you marry me?"

She panicked! Tom was proposing to her, Little Tom. Looking back, she could see the signs. He had been hinting about it for weeks. Telling her that there was something that he meant to ask her. She had supposed that it was simply his request that she move in with him. She hadn't imagined. She hadn't thought.

Marriage?

She had given up thoughts of marriage on her thirtieth birthday after her last boyfriend had dumped her for a teenager. She sat alone in a bar and got drunk realizing that no one was hitting on her even though she was ready to sleep with just about anyone. She decided then and there that she would focus on her career and forget all hopes of marriage.

Tom must have said something then because he was looking at her expectantly. There was a felt box in front of her, and inside was the most beautiful diamond ring that she had ever seen in her life! She realized that her mouth was hanging open, so she closed it. People were staring at them expectantly. The waiter was standing off to the side with a bottle of champagne. This was happening now! She had to do something.

No.

That was her first thought. Tom was just... that is Tom was a very nice man, and sex with him was incredibly good. She liked him. She liked him very much but...marriage?

Not with Tom. He wasn't... she didn't love him. Not like she had always imagined love to be. But she had just turned thirty-six. She would probably never get proposed to again, and children! If he married her, she could have children! She had given up hope.

They were still waiting for her answer.

Her father had always said that when he had met her mother he just knew...he knew that she was the one. 'Listen to your heart' he'd said. She listened, and her heart said no.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, Tom. I will marry you."

And then the cork from the champagne bottle popped, and Tom gave her the biggest smile. He took the ring and put it on her finger. People all around her clapped and she put a smile on her face that lasted there until he kissed her on the mouth embarrassing her in public as perfect strangers came over to pat them on the back. She rose to her feet and they toasted her and gave her a glass of champagne. She drank it down perhaps a bit too fast.

This was happening. This had already happened. She was engaged to Tom.

Of course they had sex that night at her place. Monday was her day off, and Tom had taken time out to stay with her. It was closer to lunch time when she finally got around to fixing him breakfast. As she arranged the eggs on the plate that morning she thought that it wouldn't be so bad a life to have Tom as a husband. He was honest and sweet, and he really liked her. She put on her favorite sweater and scarf so that they could go out for a walk, but Tom pulled her down to the couch.

"Let's not go out," he said. "Let's just stay here together all day."

"Alright," she said as she wrapped her arms around him. "We can do that if you like." Then her phone rang.

"Leave it," Tom said, but she reached over to the table to look at who was calling. When she saw the name, she answered it immediately.

" Hello Sherlock?"

"Ah, Molly. I was wondering if I could borrow you this afternoon."

"Borrow me?"

"I need you. That is, I could use your help with something over at my flat."

"Today?"

"Yes, in about an hour. That is...if you don't have anything else on."

"No, no. I wasn't doing anything. I'd be happy to come over."

"Good. I'll expect you then."

"Great! See you. Goodbye."

"Goodbye, Molly."

Molly put down the phone. Her cheeks were hot. She must have had a goofy grin on her face because Tom was looking at her strangely. Tom. Oh.

"Who was it? Where are you going?"

Molly frowned.

It was a bit of a rush to make it there by one o'clock. Tom had not been pleased, no, not at all, that she was leaving. She shook it all off, knocking at the door to be let in by Mrs Hudson who smiled at her and told her to go upstairs.

Sherlock was wearing a dressing gown. He was the only man that she had ever known to wear dressing gowns over his clothes. If he only knew how sexy it looked, well. He probably wouldn't care.

She thought that perhaps he wanted to take her to dinner. After all, she had risked her career to help him fake his death. He came toward her in slow nervous steps. She had had fantasies like this before. He would walk slowly toward her and then ask her something totally inappropriate like, 'Would you help me with an experiment. I'm trying to learn the exact pressure of kiss that might have been used in my last case.' or something like that. Of course, that would never really happen but he was still coming toward her, his hands shyly in his pockets as he asked her to... what?"

"Would you like to... solve crimes?"

Oh!

She spent the day reviewing cases with him like John always used to do. But then he'd said that she was not being John, she was being herself. He liked her for herself! She could hardly keep from smiling. After years of being ignored the moment her usefulness was over, it was heartwarming to know that now Sherlock saw her. He saw her as a real person!

They were interesting, the cases: A cheating husband trying to pretend that he was robbed. A step father posing as her daughter's boyfriend for money. A man disappearing from a train car, and an elaborate piece of fraud where someone tried to make them believe that a skeleton that couldn't have been more than six months old was the remains of Jack the Ripper.

He had seen her ring, of course. How could he miss it? He noticed everything. And he had finally begun to notice her. Well, he had called her John once, but then again she was doing John's job. Was this what it had been like for John everyday? No wonder he was so devastated by Sherlock's death. To be confronted with so many interesting stories every day, all day, and then to just... lose it. To suddenly have nothing interesting to wake up to. It was depressing just thinking on.

"Sherlock, what was today about?" she asked him.

"I was saying thank you."

Solving crimes were what Sherlock Holmes loved most in all the world, and he had shared it with her. It was touching really. Then he mentioned Jim.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me, is the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible."

'What did he mean by that? The most important person. Me?'

Then she was talking to him about Tom. She knew that she was babbling, but how does one come back from that? How does one reply to Sherlock confessing his feelings for her? Sherlock kissed her that day, on the cheek. After congratulating her on her engagement.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it," he said, and his low gentle voice was doing things to her that she hadn't felt inside for years. It was like a pot of soup that had been simmering on low heat suddenly starting to boil over.

"After all not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths," he said. And he had left her there with red cheeks and a fire burning a hole through her chest.

She smiled then feeling absolutely content as she said, "Maybe it's just my type."


	8. Chapter 8

Molly got Tom's new address from his flatmate and met him at the door just as he was returning from walking Jonesey. He was pouting, but he soon stopped that when she pushed him into the bedroom to christen the flat with a bout of marathon sex.

It was warm and cozy when she woke to find Tom spooned up against her. She smiled to herself. Tom had been mad at her for leaving, but he told her that he had forgiven her after the third time. She couldn't help feeling a stab of pride that she had actually worn him out this time. They were sleeping on a mattress which was lying on the floor. He hadn't moved his bed over yet.

An hour or so ago, he had gone out of the bedroom to brush his teeth and feed Jonesy. And when he had returned, she had run her hands along his back and kissed him senseless with her eyes closed tight. Now, he was sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted, while she felt a pleasant warmth inside.

She loved the feeling of someone so tall pressed against her back. It took hardly any imagination at all to believe that it was someone else's arm flopped over her hip. She'd have to find out what kind of shampoo Sherlock used. That would have made the illusion complete.

She felt loose-limbed when she finally got up to take a shower. She had to put her own clothes back on because she hadn't thought to bring any. She found an apple in the kitchen and sat on the only chair in the place to eat it. Jonesy jumped up onto her lap then, and she pet his head just as her phone rang.

"Hello," she said.

"Molly. This is Sherlock."

Molly blushed, "Oh hello, Sherlock. How are you?"

"What? Oh yes, social niceties. I believe _'I am fine'_ is the appropriate response. But I have called for a purpose. There is to be a party and I would like to know if you will attend."

"Sherlock, are you asking me out?"

"Yes. To a party at Baker Street, tomorrow afternoon. It's John's idea really. A coming out party."

"Coming out!"

"Coming back, that is. I was simply going to have the press conference and be done with the entire being dead thing, but he decided that we should invite people over and have a party. So, are you coming or not? I have to call Lestrade next."

"Yes, certainly. I'll be there."

"Oh, and you can bring...Tim?"

"Tom. I'll do that."

"Good. Goodbye then."

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

A party? Sherlock had invited her to a party. It wasn't like last time when he had looked so disappointed to see her, even after she had spent so much on his gift and that dress. This time he had called her himself and didn't just delegate the task to John or Mrs Hudson. She heard Tom's voice calling for her, and so she went back into the bedroom.

* * *

They arrived at the party a little late. The press were already gathering outside.

"Hello everyone, this is Tom. Tom, this is everyone."

She looked around the room to see Inspector Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, John and some other woman that she didn't know. Sherlock was standing by the window. Probably looking out at the journalists. He was so tall and thin, and he smiled when he turned toward her. He looked happy. She was also happy that he was back. He stopped in front of them and gave Tom a look over before shaking his hand, and not one insult slipped out of his lips. Not one! Molly was so proud.

Tom went to sit with Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade stepped up beside her to ask in a low voice.

"Is it serious, You two?"

"Yeah!" she said. "I've moved on." And she had.

Sherlock was... well Sherlock, and she couldn't help but want him whenever he passed by. She had long ago comes to grips with that. But it was too late. Perhaps one day he would realize how right she was for him, but now she had her own life to live. She had found someone else who would give her what she needed, and she was going to have the marriage and the kids and everything that they said she would never get. Her last boyfriend, whose name was best forgotten, had said that she was too odd and too plain for anyone to ever want to sleep with, much less marry. He had called her cold and barren. How many years had she believed that idiot before she had met Sherlock and realized that being different didn't have to mean being loveless.

Everyone was interested in Tom. Mrs Hudson was grilling him on how they had met and what his life was like. Lestrade looked at both of them oddly, while Mary (that's who the other woman was) cooed over her engagement ring.

Apparently, Mary had just got engaged to John, or was about to. There was something strange about that, John getting engaged? Sherlock was always jealous of John spending too much time with anyone but him. Perhaps Sherlock had moved on as well.

When they got home to Tom's flat. He turned to her and asked.

"Did you used to date Sherlock Holmes?"

"Me? Why no. I never dated him."

"It felt like you had. Everyone was looking at me as if I was the new one. They kept staring between me and him as if there was some kind of competition going on. What was between you and Sherlock Holmes... before."

"Oh Tom! Are you jealous?" Molly asked with a sly smile. "Do you want to... I don't know... dominate me? Prove to me that I'm yours?"

Tom looked at her with a shocked expression. "I...uh...no. I... just...hmmm." Then he bowed his head and went to hang up his coat, only then realizing that he hadn't yet put up a hook for it.

"I'm sorry," Molly said. "I didn't mean anything. I was just teasing." She wrapped her arms around him and gave him a hug.

Then she took his coat from his hand and drapped it over the chair. "We're going to have to move some furniture in to this flat soon. My couch would go against that wall. What do you think?"

Tom turned and smiled at her, "You're moving in?"

"Yes!" she said smiling, and he grabbed her around the waist and twirled her around. The dog came out of the kitchen then and began barking and jumping around them happily.

 


	9. Chapter 9

It was much later that week when Molly went to go visit Jim again. It had taken her a while to get up the courage after the last incident, but things were different now. She was an engaged woman, and she had more of a reason to say no to him.

He called for her to come in, and she did. He was sitting at the computer, as always. His pale hair surprising her again. She couldn't help but think of him as dark-haired. The wooden chair was back. The wicker chair was nowhere to be seen. There was no tea pot on the table, but there was a steaming mug of coffee there instead. How had he known when she was coming?

She sat down and pulled her chair closer to the screen.

"So, how have you been?"

"I saw you on telly," he said.

"What? I was never on telly."

"Yes you were." He said and he pulled up an image of Sherlock's press conference on the screen.

Molly's first feeling was shock. He had seen the press conference. Had it brought back his memories? But then she looked as he pointed toward the screen.

There was a crowd of reporters clustered around Sherlock and John. Sherlock was wearing the hat, and John was smiling up at him. The camera pulled back and showed the building. In the window of their flat, Mrs Hudson's smiling face could just be seen.

"That's not me, that's Mrs Hudson."

"You are there."

She looked closer and could see her hand and shoulder. She remembered. She had looked out, and then hid to avoid a cameraman who looked up at her. It hadn't caught her face though.

"How did you know that was me?" she asked.

"The scarf. It's hand-knitted."

"It could have been another scarf with the same pattern."

"No. You don't follow the pattern when you knit. You find that too boring. You add embellishments and alterations. Your knitting is as distictive as a fingerprint. I could recognize something knitted by you anywhere."

"Really? Wow!" Molly said blushing.

"So, you're engaged now?"

Molly looked down at her ring. "Oh yes, to Tom."

"Of course. Such a dull man."

"He is not dull! He's got..very many attractive features."

"But not very smart is he? Not as smart as you."

"I'm not that smart."

"Aren't you? You were smart enough to fool everyone into believing that Sherlock Holmes was really dead. It was you, wasn't it, who forged the death certificate."

"Jim."

"I know. I shouldn't have asked. Never admit to a wrong doing out loud. A very sound policy, but now that he's back, you're sure to get into trouble about it. What are you going to do when they come asking to see the body? Do you have a body? Who was really buried in Sherlock Holmes' grave?"

Molly turned to look into Jim's eyes. Quincy wouldn't have been so concerned. Jim must have remembered something. Was this finally it? She had to know.

"Jim. Let's be honest with each other."

"Yes, let's," he said turning to face her with eyes half-lidded.

"You haven't been completely honest with me about your memory, have you? You've remembered some of your past, haven't you?"

Jim stared at her and said nothing.

"Is this you doing what you told me to do just now? 'Never admit to a wrong doing out loud.' but this is important. You owe it to me as the person who saved your life to tell me the truth."

Jim sat back, his mouth tightening in what might become either a smile or a sneer, but was neither.

"Why should I be honest with you when you were never honest with me? Despite those idiots granting me identity, it hardly took any research to realize that I don't look like Quincy Hoehn. I don't even have the same blood type. They thought that the people who sent the records must have made a mistake in testing it."

"So, you know that you aren't Quincy. Do you know who you are?"

"Jim. You always wanted to call me Jim."

"And your memory, has it come back?"

"No. But you can never know that can you? You could never tell if I was telling the truth. That's why you've always been afraid of me, isn't it? Even when I was sick in bed, hardly able to lift a hand, you've been afraid of me. Is it because I was James Moriarty?"

"Jim."

"Who was he to you, Molly? It was never in the newspapers. You were never in the newspapers. Little Molly, just a person who works in the morgue at Barts. How is it that you know both a criminal mastermind and the man who hunted him? Who are you, Molly Hooper?"

"Nobody."

"I asked you about the death certificate, and you're not worried. You should be worried. You could lose your job, but you aren't. What else are you hiding? Is there someone else even more powerful taking care of that for you?"

Molly didn't think that she had given anything away, but she could tell by his expression that she had. "So, there is someone! Someone even more powerful behind you. Who is he?"

Jim grabbed Molly's hands and squeezed them tightly. "Why did you save me, Molly? What is it that you want to get from me? Do you want me to reveal my contacts? Moriarty's hidden wealth? Why do you always ask me how much of my memory has returned? Are you to be my Delilah? To betray me once I tell you my true strength? Did you betray me before? How far up does this plan go?"

"Plan, there was no plan. Jim."

He leaned forward, his face inches from her, and the sheer pressure of his anger was enough to make her shiver. "What happened at Barts? Tell me! They say that I pretended to kill myself. Blanks in a gun. Why would I do that? Doesn't it make more sense that Sherlock Holmes held the gun in my mouth? That he threatened to kill me if I didn't give him this keycode that I hear being hinted about? Why did he jump? What are you holding me here for?"

Molly closed her eyes and turned her head away. She could feel Jim's hot breath bearing down on her. "I'm not holding you here! I didn't trick you! I only wanted to help you. I just couldn't let you die!"

She felt a hand on her neck and thought that he was about to choke her, but soon she felt his lips upon hers. She threw her head back, and his lips moved down to her chin. Her heart was racing. He knew... he knew who he was, who he had been, and he still wanted her.

It had been something that she had always wondered. Jim had pretended to be her friend, to be her boyfriend. Sherlock told her that it was just a lie, but she had felt something there. That's why she couldn't believe Sherlock when he said that he was gay. She had felt in her heart that he had wanted her. Now she knew that it had been true. She wasn't cold and unattractive. Moriarty had actually wanted her. That much hadn't been a lie.

The hands and lips that had been on her went away, and she felt abandoned. Then she heard a thump, and she opened her eyes to find that Jim had lowered himself to the floor.

She sat up in the chair concerned, reaching her hand out to help him up, but he pulled her down to the floor instead. She was lying on top of him, and she couldn't find a way to stop herself from hyperventilating. He rolled over to be on top of her and he pinned her wrists over her head.

Good God!

He was staring at her lips. And she was trying to remember why this was a bad idea. She knew that this was a bad idea, but he kissed her before she could open her mouth to speak. His arms were so strong. His muscles bunched as he lifted himself up, pulling himself higher up her chest. He lowered himself down on her and then put his hands through her hair pulling out the band that held her ponytail.

How could a man who couldn't use his legs be this strong. She tried to roll him over, but she couldn't. She should be afraid, but she wasn't. There was something about him that made her catch her breath. He was evil, but then again, he might not be. He didn't remember his past. He wasn't that crazy psychopath who had blown up those people, or he was? But... Could he really be blamed for things that he couldn't remember doing? Could a man who made her feel so right be wrong?

No, he wasn't wrong, she was. His right hand was under her jumper fondling her bra. His left hand held down her wrists firmly in a way that should upset her, but somehow only made her feel more excited.

"Jim," she finally said when her breath returned.

"Hmmm," he hummed against her neck.

"I can't," she said.

"I assure you that I can. Not everything about me is paralyzed."

She worked one of her hands out of his grip and pushed him aside. Then she sat up. She looked at herself and then she pulled her jumper down and pulled her hair back twisting it into a bun. Jim rolled onto his side and looked up at her.

"Molly," he said. The voice transmitter still around his neck. "Help me up."

Molly reached over and grabbed Jim's arms pulling him to a sitting position. He held on to her with a firm grip, and she could tell that he was considering forcing her back down to the floor again. She was surprised by how much that thought excited her. Instead, she climbed to her feet and pulled on his waist helping him climb back into his wheelchair.

They took a few moments to groom themselves, avoiding each other's eyes. Then Molly sat back in the wooden chair.

"So where does this leave us, Jim. Am I your enemy?"

"I don't know. Are you?"

"I didn't save you because I wanted something from you. I found you on the roof. You had tried to fake your death, but you were really dying. I couldn't leave you to die when I had the power to save you."

"And that's the truth?"

"Yes."

"No one told you to do it?"

"No one else even knows what happened. You're the first person that I've told."

"What will happen if you tell the others about me."

"I don't know. I suppose... I guess they'll try to kill you."

"And Molly, now that I know who I am, do you want to kill me?"

"I don't kill people."

"That's not what I asked, but it is answer enough."

"Are you going to hurt them, Jim. I don't want you to hurt people like you did before."

"I'm not the man I was before. I've been seeing a psychiatrist. He's been giving me medicine to control my moods. I can't believe that I didn't know the danger. If I did put a gun in my mouth, then I must have known that I could have died. I just didn't care. From what I've read, Moriarty was insane."

"Moriarty?"

"I am not Moriarty. I am Jim."

"Oh. I won't tell anyone, Jim. I just... I don't want anyone else to get hurt. Promise me that you won't hurt anyone."

"I can't promise you that. You said that someone out there wants to kill me. I won't let that happen."

"But Jim. I don't want to be mixed up in anything illegal."

"What do you mean? Everything that I have been doing is perfectly above board. It is you who is the criminal of the two of us."

"Because if you do go back to your old ways, I won't be able... that is. If you do, I won't come back to see you again."

"You will come back. You'll always come back."

"Why?"

"Because you always knew who I was, and you never turned me in. Because I kissed you last time that you came, and yet you're here now. Because you know what I want, and I now know that you want it too. If this illness has taught me anything, it has taught me to be patient. Tom won't last, and Sherlock doesn't want you. It's only a matter of time before you'll come back to stay, because despite what lies you tell yourself, you've always been attracted to the dark."

Molly rose to her feet. Jim was grinning at her. She stepped away from him, and then she rushed out of the room grabbing her things quickly as she left the flat.

It wasn't true. She was a good woman, an honest woman. She would never...never. The rain started up then and she covered her head with her scarf wondering if anyone else had bothered to know her that well, and wondering if what he had said about her was true.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly heard the phone ring and pattered into the living room to answer it. She was wearing her favorite cat patterned pajamas, and had a towel wrapped around her head. She draped the towel around her neck and answered it, smiling as she recognized the voice.

"Hello Molly"

"Tom! Are you back already?"

"Yes."

"How did it go?"

"My brother's team slaughtered 'em."

"Wonderful!"

"I want to see you. Come over."

"I can't."

"Then I'll come to you."

"Please don't."

"Why not, Molly? I miss you."

"I miss you too, Tom, but I'm exhausted. You can't know what a nightmare work was today. The server crashed erasing a good chunk of the Research department's data. They were going crazy trying to find backups that were never made. Some of the data was unrecoverable. No one could figure out what had happened, and they were asking me for autopsy records to try to recreate their findings. It was a disaster!"

"I could rub your back."

"No, Tom. Honestly, I need to sleep tonight, especially if we are going to be moving tomorrow. Do you have everything?"

"Yes. My brother is letting me use his van."

"Good."

"I can't wait. After tomorrow you'll be coming home to me. Won't that be wonderful?"

"Oh, uh, yes! I can't wait."

"Neither can I. I love you."

"Yeah, goodnight."

"Goodnight, Molly."

Molly set the phone down on the table and had turned toward the bathroom to hang up the towel when she heard a rapping on the door.

She put on the chain, and opened it cautiously to see a tall shaggy youth in a dirty grey hoodie clutching his side. She was about to shut the door in his face, when she heard his deep voice say, "Let me in Molly. I'm bleeding."

She closed the door, undid the chain, and then opened it wide as Sherlock barged into her flat. He headed straight for the kitchen sink, taking her tea towel and wetting it before pressing it against the left side of his chest.

"Sherlock, are you hurt?"

"Obviously."

"You should go to the hospital!"

"No. It's just a scratch. Bring your med kit, Molly. I need to bandage this."

Molly rushed to the closet and found her first aid kit, returning just as Sherlock was pulling the shirt and hoodie over his head. Molly's heartbeat raced as she realized that she was soon to have a half-naked Sherlock in her flat, but the titillation turned to pity the moment she looked at him.

His back was crisscrossed with scars, horrible scars. He had been severely beaten, and not just once, but many times. Molly placed the kit on the counter and reached out to trace a particularly deep scar in his upper back.

"This was made with a pipe," she said, "and this with a chain. My God, Sherlock! What happened to you?"

Sherlock had stopped moving at her touch. He glanced over his shoulder at her, the tea towel still pressed against his side as she examined him.

"And these were from cigarette burns. They should have healed by now. They must have been incredibly deep, as if someone burned the same spot over and over. Who did this?"

Sherlock turned his head away and began digging through the kit. Molly bent down then, and examined the wound on his side. "Horizontal abrasion of the skin in the left hypochondriac region. Not deep enough to pierce the abdominal cavity."

"As I said, it was just a scratch."

"The edge of this wound looks bad. Sherlock, you should get this seen to."

"That's why I came to you."

"I work on corpses! You need someone with experience on living patients. If you won't go to a hospital, at least let me call John."

"No!" Sherlock cried stopping her as she moved toward her phone. "Don't tell John."

"Why not? John always patches you up when you're hurt."

"Not anymore. Don't call him. If John knew I was hurt, then he would insist on examining me, and then... he'd see."

Molly glanced into his eyes. Sherlock's nervous expression made him look so young. She examined the marks on his back again. They were old. Unlike the wound on his side, they weren't from some recent street fight. Sherlock had been tortured repeatedly. One scar appeared to be a stab wound. Another scar might have been from a gun that had grazed the outside of his arm.

"It's from when you were away isn't it?" she asked. "I didn't know what you'd done while you were gone, I didn't ask. You were hunting them down, weren't you? The assassins, the ones they had sent to kill John. You destroyed Moriarty's organization personally, didn't you. That's why you left, why you had to leave. To stop them."

Sherlock placed his fists on the counter and lowered his head.

"You need to get John to look at these. There must be something he can do to..."

"He mustn't know. If he even suspects, then he won't stop until he gets the full story out of me, and there are things. Things that I've done. I never want him to feel...he shouldn't have to... Just let him think that I'm frivolous and irresponsible. It's better for everyone if he never finds out what I had to do to save him."

Molly imagined the pain of being tortured to save a friend only to have the friend yell at you for going away. He could have told him what he'd done, what he'd sacrificed. John was a soldier. He could imagine it better than she could. He would have forgiven Sherlock. He would have felt indebted to him, and perhaps that was why he never told him. Despite his arrogance he was so shy when it came to emotions. He wanted John to come back to him because he liked him, not out of a feeling of obligation. Sherlock had the best excuse for his actions, but he hid that fact because he wanted John to love him for his own sake. In his heart, Sherlock was such a lonely child. Molly found tears welling up in her eyes. She reached out her arms and hugged him.

"Oh Sherlock...you poor boy."

She bandaged him up, and put him to sleep in her own bed. He saw the stack of boxes in the corner and grabbed her arm. Molly was reminded of another man's grip. Sherlock noticed where she was looking and removed his hand.

"Sorry," he said, "Are you planning on moving?"

"Yes," Molly said with a smile. "I'm moving in with Tom tomorrow."

"Don't," Sherlock said earnestly. "Your flat is the only safe house that I have in this area. I rely on it. I need you here."

"But Sherlock, I have a life!"

"I need you," he said, and then fell back into her bed exhausted, and it was a testament to their friendship that he left it at that knowing that if he truly need her, that she would be there for him.

She woke up the next morning at the sound of a key in the door. She was sprawled out across the couch. Her blanket having fallen off in the night to be replaced by a sleeping cat. She rubbed her eyes and sat up just as Tom entered.

"Morning Molly," he said rushing forward to give her a kiss.

"Oh Tom, at least give me a moment to brush my teeth first," she said smiling as he gave her a hug and another kiss on the cheek.

Molly stood up and went to the lavatory. She was half finished with brushing her teeth, mumbling encouragingly at Tom as he gave a running commentary of what he'd done the previous day, when she remembered that Sherlock was sleeping in her bed. She dropped her toothbrush into the sink and ran into the bedroom to find Tom was already there moving out the boxes.

The bed was empty. In fact it had been made much more neatly than she'd ever done.

"I guess you really were tired to have fallen asleep before you could even make it to the bed. Come on and get dressed. I only have the van for a day, and it looks as if your things have multiplied since I was last here."

Molly glanced at the bed and remembered Sherlock's plea, "I need you." Then she turned to face Tom.

"Tom, actually, about me moving..."


	11. Chapter 11

When she opened the envelope and read the name John Hamish Watson on the wedding invitation, her first thought was of Sherlock. How was he taking it? John had not exactly been cold after his return, but neither had things returned to the way they had been. When Sherlock came to work in the lab, he came alone. There was no John leaning up against the counter to ask him what he was doing, or to frown disapprovingly at him when he said disparaging comments to her. John had his own life apparently, and Sherlock was fine with that. Except he wasn't.

She saw his sorrow in the way he muttered comments under his breath, the kind of comments that he would have told John had he been there. In the way he called her John when she handed him a cup of coffee. She saw it in the way that his sly smile of victory when he'd just discovered something fell from his face when he realized that no one was there to tell about it.

The last few weeks before the wedding, he hardly came to Bart's at all, preferring to spend as much time as possible with John, and presumably Mary as well. They were apparently very close. And then there was the Stag Do. Sherlock giving her his file on John and asking her to calculate John's alcohol tolerance when he could easily do such calculations in his head. Nothing else had so clearly conveyed to her the sheer level of panic that must be going on behind those eyes of his.

She looked through the file that Sherlock gave her, and marveled at the trust he conveyed by letting her see it. This was a secret file that he had compiled on John. As well as the obvious implication from his little collage that he considered John the perfect man, the file included minute details about him that revealed a level of obsession that would be frankly alarming in anyone other than Sherlock. He had the man's nostril sizes for goodness sake!

But there were other facts that were a bit sadder. The number of nights that he had audible nightmares, and the effectiveness of different kinds of music to calm them. The frequency that John wore particular shirts and jumpers correlated to his moods, with a particular addendum speculating on his favorite pants. The ring size of the fourth finger of his left hand. The last one gave her pause because although it was logical to take such a measurement in the months before John's wedding, this measurement was dated over two years ago.

Was Sherlock trying in his own so coded way to tell her something? Was he trying to tell her what she had known virtually from the moment that she had met John, that Sherlock had always considered him much more important than she? Or did he, perhaps, have a file on her somewhere? What would be in it, she wondered? Most likely which compliments would be most effective to get her to do what he asked. No, best not to speculate on such things.

She asked everyone that knew Sherlock about the wedding. How was he taking his best man duties? Would he be capable of standing in front of an audience and saying something decent about another person? They all told her not to worry, but when Sherlock came by with desperation and fear barely concealed behind his eyelids, she added an extra dose to the alcohol level that she had calculated. Maybe it would be best for everyone if Sherlock got a little bit pissed.

The wedding day was fair and clear. She had bought a new yellow dress and a matching bow for her hair. Tom loved it. He said that she looked like an anime heroine, whatever that meant. And when she told him that due to a laundry error the only underthings she had to wear were the exotic French ones that her friends had given her as a gag gift at her engagement party, he hadn't been able to keep his hands off her.

Not that she minded his kisses. A part of her thrilled to show Sherlock and the world that someone found her desirable. But it was all lost on Sherlock who stood up in the church like a statue, at least those times that he could tear his eyes away from John. He was beyond handsome in his wedding suit. He was even wearing a tie, and he never wore ties.

It wasn't until the third time Tom asked her where her mind was that she realized that she had been staring at him for most of the day. His speech was an emotional rollercoaster. She went from mortification when he called Mary's bridesmaids ugly, to awe when his sincere compliments to John caused Mrs Hudson to cry. Then he dropped his glass, and she could see that he had come to a revelation. She had seen him do it often enough, his manic stage. She was riveted, wondering what he would come up with only to be interrupted by Tom's comment that he was pissed.

Tom was absolutely horrid at the wedding. Besides putting his hand up her skirt at inappropriate moments, he made that ridiculous comment about the meat dagger, and in public too! She had never been so embarrassed. But his conduct was almost a welcome distraction from the Greek tragedy that she was witnessing. How did John not notice how many of Sherlock's smiles were fake? The melancholy sadness of the wedding waltz. The way his eyes never left John as he played. This is what his months of torture and sacrifice had gained him, John going away.

She had resolved to take him aside after he was done with his best man duties and give him a shoulder to cry on, a voice to listen to, that is if that harpy of a bridesmaid ever let go of his arm long enough for her to get him alone, but when she looked up from her dancing, Sherlock was already gone.

They were silent on the ride back but her reverie was disturbed by Tom's uncharacteristically biting words.

"So, you've finally noticed that I'm here. Nice to know that I rank some small portion of your attention when Sherlock Holmes is not in the room."

"What?"

"I would think that being your fiancé might grant me a bit of your consideration, but I suppose that my careful theories aren't up to the standard of a drunken detective who admitted to not knowing the answer to a case. It wasn't as if anyone else had a better idea."

"Are you...upset?"

"Only for the last three hours. You might have noticed if you'd looked at me in all that time."

"But Tom I...sorry let me make it up to you. We can have a late supper, put the candles on the table and just..."

"If you don't mind, Molly, I'd like to drop you off at your flat. I have a headache."

Tom dropped her off and drove away. She climbed the stairs and went to her room where she carefully hung up her dress before looking at herself in the mirror. She had forgotten she was wearing the lingerie. She peeled it off, and threw it in the hamper pulling on pajamas before climbing alone into bed.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Tom came by to apologize to her the next day, and then Molly apologized back to him. They had sex. For a few weeks, that was what their relationship was like, lots of silent sex, and no talking about anything important. Even so, it was the smallest thing that spelled the ending. They were looking at a magazine article called, How smart are you? And when Tom was stuck on a Sudoku puzzle, Molly took the magazine from his hands and tried to solve it herself.

Tom glared at her and said. "You think I'm stupid don't you?"

"Of course not, what do you mean?"

"You like intelligent people, but you never compliment me on my intelligence."

"Your intelligence is fine. Not everyone can be Sir Isaac Newton. Look, if you want to solve the puzzle yourself, go ahead."

"This isn't about the stupid puzzle, this is about what you think of me."

"Do we have to do this now, Tom?"

"When do you expect us to do it, during our wedding? And when will that be, by the way? My mother keeps asking. She wants to start on the invitations. What bride isn't happy about a wedding? I thought after seeing how nice your friend's wedding was that you might want to talk about what kind you wanted, but you always change the subject."

"I just... I'm not into big events, and my father is dead."

"We would do the whole thing. You only needed to ask, but it's as if you're not keen on it any more."

"Of course I am."

"And is that another lie, like the one about Toby being afraid of the dog? He's not. Ever since he scratched her, she's been afraid of him. Or the one about where you went that night when you said that you were working late. I called and you weren't scheduled to be in all weekend. Or perhaps the one where you said that there was nothing at all between you and Sherlock Holmes."

Molly was taken aback. 'Which weekend?' she thought. It might perhaps have been the first time, when she snuck away to see Mycroft. Or, it could have been one of her visits to Jim. Or that weekend when Sherlock asked for her help on a murder case. When it came down to it, she had lied to him alot.

Tom wore an expression on his face like that of a kicked puppy. She stood.

"There is nothing between Sherlock and me."

"Bullshit!"

"Tom?"

"What? Are you going to tell me not to swear? You're my fiancé not my mother. Sometimes I wonder if you care about me at all. We were supposed to share our lives together, but you just can't let go to your old life. Move out of your flat."

"No!"

"Why not? It isn't the cat, so what is the problem? It's me isn't it? You don't want to live with me."

"No, that's not it at all."

"Then what is it?"

Molly stared at him. What should she say? She couldn't admit that she did it for Sherlock. Tom would get jealous. Ask about all the times he was here. How he slept in her bed, used her shower, perhaps she would need to tell him about how Sherlock faked his death. About how out of everyone he knew, he came to her. The silence had gone on too long apparently, because he turned then and walked to the door. Molly ran up and grabbed his wrist.

"Wait!" she said.

"There's only one question I have for you, Molly. Just one. And this will determine if there is a future left for us."

"What is it?"

"Do you love me?"

* * *

It took three days before she could go to work without having to run to the bathroom to hide a bout of crying. She spent more and more time in the lab where she could be alone, and not have to answer any embarrassing questions like "How's Tom?"

She hadn't seen him since the day he had come to her flat carrying the last of the things that she had left behind. He had lain his spare key down on the table and gone to the door. He'd looked back at her then, and she wanted to say something, she wanted to make it all better for him, but she couldn't because he was right. She had lied to him. She had pretended that she had loved him when she didn't. She was a terrible person.

The door opened, and John Watson walked in, followed by Sherlock and a couple others.

"Molly, just the person I wanted to see," John said. "Sherlock needs to take a drug test."

She looked up at Sherlock to see his hair in disarray. He was wearing an outfit similar to the one he'd worn when he'd come to her flat.

"Do we really have to do this John? I told you that I'm on a case!"

"I'll need a urine sample," she said noticing his dilated eyes and the loose way that he carried himself.

"Give me the cup," John said reaching his hand out, and she handed him a sample container. "Come on now, off to the bathroom we go."

"We?"

"Yes we. I'm not giving you the opportunity to pull some kind of trick. Let's go."

"But John, this is so sudden. What will people think when they see the two of us coming out of a bathroom stall?"

"No different than they always think. Now get moving."

They left the room, and Mary smiled at her. She walked away to get the machine ready. She didn't know what it was exactly but something about Mary gave her the creeps. Maybe it was the way that she was so pleasant and understanding. Molly knew that there could be envy and anger hidden behind a pleasant face, and she could never tell how much of what Mary said was genuine. Luckily, she didn't need to spend much time with her.

They came back in and John handed her the cup. She couldn't help but smile at the flush on Sherlock's neck. It was funny to see someone embarrass him occasionally. She put one sample into the extractor, and then she mixed the second sample with buffer to enhance its ability to detect opioids. They waited in silence glancing at each other and away until the machine beeped and the results came up on the screen.

She could see it in the graph immediately, even before the computer analysis was done. There was cocaine, definitely, but also some kind of opiate, either opium or heroine. It was a speedball. Molly sighed.

'How dare he,' she thought. 'How dare he give up and use drugs to kill his pain and perhaps end his life when the rest of us are also suffering. How dare he risk getting brain damaged like Jim for something as frivolous as a case. It's not for a case. It's foolish, besides I lost someone too.'

Molly removed her gloves.

"Well, is he clean?" John asked her.

"Clean?" she said frowning. Then she walked over to Sherlock and she slapped him, but she was still angry so she slapped him again. Then she saw his stupid face, and had to add one more. "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with? And how _dare_ you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

"Sorry your engagement's over – though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it! Just stop it," she cried.

John came over to berate Sherlock then saying, "You could have called, you could have talked to me." But all that Molly could hear was Tom berating her for all the secrets she never told him, that she was never going to tell him. Sherlock had such secrets too. What a pair they made, although in truth, Sherlock's motives for lying were much better than hers. She had lied to make things easier. He had lied to save John's life.

That evening her flat seemed as cold and barren as her heart. She walked out and found her way to Jim's place.

 


	13. Chapter 13

"Come in," he called and she hung up her coat to reveal her little black dress. She had worn it once at Sherlock's Christmas party, but it had become too small for her as happiness had added pounds. For a whim she tried it on in her flat, and finding that it fit, she had to go out.

There was no coffee or tea, but Jim was sitting by the table clutching his head. He looked up at her then, and looked up again.

"Molly," he said. His voice still surprising her in the way it came from the computer instead of his mouth. It was different now. Closer to the way his real voice had been. It even had a bit of a Celtic lilt to it.

She wrinkled her brow, "Are you alright? You seem to be in pain."

"Just a headache", he said. She leaned over his chair and brushed his hair away from his face. Her scarf hung down from her neck to hit his knee, and he reached out to take it in his hands. "I've never seen this one before. Narrow and black, like a tie."

"Oh this? It was just an experiment. Something to do with metallic yarn. I don't wear it often. Nothing much matches it."

"But your dress does. Thank you. Too bad I'm not quite up to the challenge. This damn body."

"Oh I didn't dress this way for..." Her voice trailed off. She was trying not to lie anymore.

"Help me to my bedroom please, my headache pills are there."

Molly walked around and took the handles of the chair rolling Jim into what must be his bedroom. It was sparsely furnished and neat. There was an African mask on one wall, but other than that, it was unadorned. The bed was a relatively normal one, but there was an odd set of metal bars hanging over it. They were attached to the ceiling and stabilized at the headboard.

"What is that?" Molly asked.

He looked up. "My physical therapist says that I should exercise to strengthen my arms. I do pull-ups twice a day. He rolled over to the side table and picked up a pill bottle. He swallowed two and then drank from a water bottle sitting beside it. "Help me onto the bed will you?" he said.

Molly only hesitated a moment before walking over and lifting him from his chair. He reached up and helped pull himself along using the bars, and _oh my_ his biceps did bunch quite a bit as he crawled along them. She helped him lower himself onto the bed, and then climbed up to sit next to him when she realized that there were no chairs in the room.

Jim leaned his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes. "So Tom is finally gone, I see."

Molly looked down at the place where her ring had been and sighed. No use denying it. He was probably about to say, _'I told you so.'_

"I'm not going to say, 'I told you so.' "

"No?"

"There's no need. You knew from the start that Tom wasn't man enough to keep you. You were simply lying to yourself."

"Was I?"

"Do you really want me to spell it out for you? You, Molly Hooper, like to think of yourself as a perfectly ordinary girl. That is a lie. You were never ordinary. Ordinary girls don't find pleasure in cutting up dead bodies. Ordinary girls aren't as educated as you. Ordinary girls couldn't conceal one faked death, much less two so completely that some of the smartest minds in the world don't even suspect what you've done. One would truly have to be a fool to find anything about you ordinary.

A smile crept up Molly's lips then. Who would have thought that a man who had once been one of the worst criminals in the world would compliment her. Should she be proud of it, or should she be afraid?

She looked around then. "Your voice. I hear it even though the computer is in the other room." He gestured to a pair of speakers mounted in the wall.

"They're mounted in every room now. Too practical to be without. I've also simplified the microphone. This tape is sensitive to vibrations. It sends signals to the wireless receiver there. Much less uncomfortable than the plastic collar I had before.

Molly looked closely at the thin film attached to his neck. "That's amazing," she said, "You are indeed a genius!" She sat back then and noticed the way his eyes were staring down her cleavage. She had forgotten the way that her dress had only two small straps to hold it up, not at all concealing her French bra beneath. She blushed.

He stared in her eyes then, and his look pinned her to the headboard. Then he leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth. Molly's heart raced and a flush covered her skin. He reached out and slowly pulled her scarf off of her shoulders. It was a long scarf, a bit more than six feet.

"May I?" He asked, and she nodded although she didn't know what he was asking for since he had already taken her scarf. He took her hand then and placed it against the metal bar beside his headboard. Then he tied it in place with the edge of her scarf.

"Um, Jim?" she asked hesitantly as he tied her other wrist to the bar on the other side. "Jim, what are you doing?"

"I'm giving you what you came for. One doesn't visit one's sick friend in a dress like that unless she wants something, and now that my headache is gone I can finally give it to you."

"What? I didn't ... I wasn't," but her words were stopped when he rolled on top of her and kissed her once again. And yes, she wanted him. She wanted someone. She'd been so lonely since Tom left, and Sherlock had his own issues. What she wanted then was something simple and primal and strong to take away the threads of self-hatred that are worming their way down into her soul.

He reached down and his fingers traced up her thigh pushing aside the fabric. Suddenly she realized that she didn't completely trust this man. She tried to get up, but her hands were strapped to the bed.

"No, stop, stop!" she said and suddenly she was free. He had pulled himself completely off of the bed and back into his chair. She breathed rapidly, but when she looked at him, it was just Jim not the crazed madman he used to be. "Sorry, sorry, I panicked. We can continue if you want."

"No," he said. "This isn't the twentieth century. 'No' doesn't mean 'yes' and it's not sexy to force someone. I had decided to give you the most amazing sexual experience of your life, but I'm not touching you again unless you ask me. Unless you say to me _'Yes Jim'_."

"Yes, Jim. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to panic like that. It won't happen again."

"I don't believe you. I don't think that you trust me."

"Yes, of course I do."

"Honestly?"

"I trust you. Please Jim, please!"

It was the please that did it. Faster than she could imagine he was across the bed and on her again feeling the inside of her lips with his tongue. Then he climbed up and pulled himself over using the bars until he sat astride her. He leaned over then, and opening the drawer on the side table, he removed a wicked looking knife. Molly's eyes grew as wide as saucers, and she wanted to move, but she had told him that she trusted him. He reached out and grabbed the strap of her dress. He stuck the knife under it and cut it. Then he did the same to the other strap before putting the knife on the table and pulling the dress down her body to reveal her exotic lingerie.

"Oh!" Molly said finally understanding that it was the only way to take off the dress and keep her hands tied. Jim was grinning down at her. She noticed a thin line of black stubble above his lip as he lowered his head beside hers.

"You liked that didn't you, the danger? You are a strange one, Molly dear. So unassuming on the outside, but dig a little and you reveal a lioness!"

Molly smirked at him and said, "Shut up and kiss me."

And he did, before giving her, as promised, the most amazing sexual experience of her life.

 


	14. Chapter 14

_Meow meow!_

_Meow meow!_

Molly awoke to the sound of her kitty ringtone.

She was confused and disoriented by the fact that nothing was where it should be. She sat up quickly and hit her head on a metal bar. The phone stopped ringing. She looked around then and remembered where she was.

She was alone in Jim's room which was a blessing because she was naked except for her bra, and the sheets were pooled down on the floor. She had been feeling unloved and reckless because her fiancé had dumped her, and Sherlock had insulted her for it.

Even so, she wasn't sure that the right answer was to fall into the hands and mouth of Jim Moriarty no matter what he claimed not to remember. In fact he remembered quite a bit, though muscle memory wasn't stored in the same part of the brain as other memories.

The phone began to ring again, and she noticed her purse on the floor. She had rushed out of the room to get it last night sometime and had left it propped against the wall. She wrapped the sheet around herself, embarrassed to answer the phone in a state on undress.

"Hello."

"Hello Molly, this is Mike Stanford."

Molly pulled the sheet up over her shoulder. "Ah Mike, Good morning. How are you?"

"Well, I'm fine, but Sherlock is not, he's been shot."

"What!"

Jim rolled in then. He was shirtless in only his pajama bottoms. "Did you say Sherlock's been shot? Is he dead?"

"No, but he's in critical condition. I just didn't know if anyone had told you yet."

"No, I hadn't heard a thing."

"They're not allowing visitors yet, but when they do, I can give you a call if you like."

"Yes please, keep me informed."

"Goodbye."

"Bye."

Jim watched her with a curious eye. She found her knickers then, and put them on under the cover of the sheet. Then she picked up her dress. Its beautiful rhinestone straps had been cut.

"Damn!"

She turned toward Jim. "You don't have any pins do you? Or glue, or a needle and thread? I need something. No, what I really need a cup of coffee." She tried to walk with the sheet but she trod on it and nearly tripped. "Sod it!" She said dropping the sheet and the dress onto the floor as she strode past Jim and walked out of the room.

She made a pot of coffee in Jim's kitchen while dressed in only her underthings, and tried to ignore the way he watched her as she paced back and forth nervously. She went back to the room then to get her dress, shoes, and purse. Then she went through it pulling out a hair band and running her hand through her hair a few times before putting it up in a ponytail.

She drank the coffee and then dug through her things until she found some nappy pins. She pinned her straps back together, and then put on the dress. It looked ridiculous.

"I need to borrow a shirt," she said and she went to dig one out of his wardrobe. It was incredibly neat. What was it about sociopaths and their clothes?

She found a grey t-shirt and pulled it over her head. It looked odd but at least no bits were falling out. She went to the living room then, and put on her shoes.

"Shame," Moriarty said.

"What's a shame?"

"You're dressed. I liked you better walking around in just your knickers. So serious."

"This is serious. Someone may need me."

"Especially if someone dies," he said. "Come now, you were thinking it too."

"Stop it, just stop it!"

"Make me."

"Jim, I'm sorry about...I mean I was just using you."

"Isn't that what we all do? Use each other for our own ends? I liked it."

"You liked it?"

"Come here, and I'll show you how much."

For just a second, she was tempted, but the thought of Sherlock in a hospital dying made her turn and rush for her coat.

"What, no goodbye kiss?" He called out. And then there was an eerie mechanical sound that she realized must be his laughter. She rushed out into a foggy morning only then realizing that she had left her scarf behind.

* * *

For the first few days, there were no visitors allowed to see Sherlock, so she waited for news at Bart's. Every thought of hers seemed to be filled with regret. She regretted that the last thing that she had given Sherlock, was a slap. She regretted that she couldn't be honest with the one good man who had loved her, and that she could with the one man she shouldn't trust. Greg called from the hospital then to ask if Sherlock was there.

"I thought that he was in critical condition, how can he be missing?"

"Just tell us if you see him. John's in a right panic," Greg said.

"I will," she replied before going to check the lab.

Mary came by later that day and asked about Sherlock's hiding places. She told him about her flat, but didn't say much else. There was still something about Mary that rubbed her the wrong way, because anyone who truly loved him would know that if Sherlock was hiding, it was for a good reason. His real friends would wait for him to contact them.

She stayed at work as late as she could, but as fatigue overcame her, she decided to head back home.

The lights were on when she entered, so she rushed inside thinking to find Sherlock. Of all the men that she could have found in her flat, Mycroft Holmes was not one that she had ever expected.

"Mr Holmes!"

"Miss Hooper."

"I don't know where Sherlock is. He hasn't contacted me."

"I know. That's not why I've come."

"Then what do you..."

"Where is Moriarty's body?"

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Why should I?"

"Sometime last night someone dug up my brother's grave."

"Sherlock? He's not dead is he?"

"The old grave, the fake one. I had left orders that his coffin was to be filled with a sack of sand. Instead we found a body, a petty criminal with a superficial resemblance to my brother. The ambassador's children, in the presence of a psychologist, identified this man as the one who had kidnapped them. This lead us to examine your actions on the night of my brother's ... escape. The distance was long, but one camera showed what appeared to be a woman lifting Moriarty's body and placing him onto a trolley."

"Really?"

"You handle bodies quite a bit in your line of work, don't you?"

"I do, but so do most of the nurses."

"Are you claiming that you're not the one who moved his body?"

"I uh, would you like to have some tea?" She started toward the kitchen, but he stretched his umbrella out and stopped her.

"We will get to the bottom of this, Miss Hooper, and if I find that you had the smallest bit of involvement in my brother's situation, I will personally ensure a long incarceration for you. Good evening."

Mycroft Holmes strode out of her flat with the air of a person who owned the country, and perhaps he did. Molly checked the door, and locked it with the chain. She looked around her flat, and noticed Jim's shirt lying on her bed. She didn't remember placing it there.

Did he know about Jim?

Should she expect, sometime soon, to take another car ride with the mysterious woman? Did blood show up on black pumps she wondered?

Her phone beeped. Perhaps Sherlock had finally contacted her. The message read,

'Come on your usual day, no sooner.'

Was it Jim? Whether it was or not, it was good advice. She put the shirt back in her hamper and got dressed for bed.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Molly couldn't help looking around as she stood at Jim's door. Was someone following her? Was she wrong to come? The problem was that now that Mycroft Holmes suspected her, she expected every minute for some horrible fate to befall her. It was almost almost a relief to walk inside Jim's flat and only have to deal with the nagging fear that she was being played.

"Come in," Jim said.

Jim was sitting in front of the computer just as he usually was. He appeared to be like any other of the dozens of patients in adjoining flats learning to live on their own. His pale hair now had streaks of white.

"Jim."

"Call me Quincy."

"What?"

"Quincy, it's my name after all."

"How are you doing...Quincy. I don't..."

"I had a new nurse earlier this week. Apparently my regular nurse had a family emergency and had to take some time off."

"Oh, that's too bad..."

"The new nurse is a spy."

"A spy?"

"Yes, a spy. Who knows that I'm alive?"

"No one, except me that is."

"Then what did you do to make them suspect?"

"Jim."

"Quincy!"

"I think that Mycroft Holmes suspects who you are."

"Mycroft Holmes. I see. He may suspect, but if he knew for sure he'd have me by now. No, you covered your tracks too well. I am just your good friend Quincy Hoehn whom you visit out of the goodness of your heart. But how do you know that Holmes is suspicious?"

"He came to visit me. He said that Sherlock's grave had been dug up. There was a body. I had sent it to the home to be buried. A man who kidnapped children. Who made it seem like Sherlock had poisoned them." _Who you had sent to poison them,_ she had almost said, but he didn't remember that, and she didn't want to tell him about it.

"Is that all he asked about?"

"No, he asked about your body."

"Quincy's body?"

"Moriarty's body."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, but I don't understand. Who would dig up Sherlock's coffin?"

"It's amazing what college students will do for a dare."

"You? Did you dig up the body?"

"I arranged it, yes."

"Why?"

"I wanted to see my own face."

"Your face?"

"What did you do with the body of Quincy Hoehn?"

When she heard this. Molly's heart jumped into her mouth and she felt a sudden fear. This didn't at all sound like the gentle Jim whose bed she had sat beside in the hospital. This Jim was calculating (Call me Quincy, he'd said.) and demanding like Jim Moriarty. He must have his memory back! Perhaps he'd had it all along.

He seemed to recognize his error, because he stopped talking and rolled forward placing his arms on her hips.

"Luv, what's wrong?"

"What are you doing? What are you planning on doing? You said... you said that you only wanted to make a new life for yourself, but you're digging up bodies. This doesn't sound like leaving your past behind. You've remembered. You're going to start it all again."

"No dear, no. I only want to keep myself safe, to keep us safe. What will happen to you if they find that I'm alive? Do you think that they'll leave you alone? Let you keep your job?

I know what Moriarty did the same as everyone does, because I read it in the papers, but I don't feel any of that? I don't want revenge. I don't feel any emotion at all about that life. All I want is to protect this life, our life. I have a career. They're going to produce the sound boxes and sell them. A university even contacted me asking if I'd do lectures for their engineering class. Can you believe it, me a professor?

I want that future. An honest future. And I still haven't taken you to Paris."

Molly leaned back attempting to get out of his grip, but he clutched her tighter, worming his head beneath her jumper to kiss at the exposed skin on her waist.

"I hired a prostitute yesterday."

"What!" Molly exclaimed finally succeeding in pushing him away.

"That nurse found the condoms that you had left here. She knows I'm sexually active. It doesn't take a genius to realize you are my most frequent visitor. Oh don't look at me that way, we didn't do anything but talk.

"Her name is Diana, and she has a seven year old son. She's in terrible debt, and it's the only way that she can find to protect him. I stand to make quite a bit of money from this invention. I can help her get enough to move away, get a better life."

"Why would you do that?"

"She's agreed to come every week. To give us a cover."

"A cover for what?"

"A cover for this."

Jim tugged on Molly so that she tripped, then he twisted her body in his arms so that she sat in his lap, her legs sticking over the edge of the chair. Jim lifted her head and kissed her neck, running one hand through her hair to remove her ponytail while the other undid her jeans.

"Jim!" she said struggling to get out of the chair. She stilled when he placed his strong fingers over her throat. He stared down at her, his fiery intensity meeting her fear.

"Shhhh," he said. "One word to Holmes and the next time you come to visit, I will be gone forever. You hold my life in your hands everyday, and I trust you. I only ask that you trust me back. Molly, do you trust me? Say that you trust me."

He held her firmly. He was strong, and powerful, and sexy. "I trust you," she said and he smiled before putting his mouth to hers and giving her a deep and passionate kiss.


	16. Chapter 16

 

When Sherlock finally got out of the hospital, they had a party at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock was still a bit shaky on his feet, so John held his arm. Greg asked about Mary, but John said that she couldn't make it. The look of pity on Mrs Hudson's face told another story. Maybe later, she could have a quiet word with her about it.

John lowered Sherlock into the chair, and he smiled up at him. There was a quiet caring between the two of them that hadn't been there when Sherlock had first returned. John was gentle with Sherlock, and Sherlock went out of his way to show John more affection, as if he were likely to shy away at a rough touch.

Sherlock looked different to her now. Maybe it was the fact that he had almost died. Maybe it was the cautious way he acted, but she felt very protective of him. He was a beautiful man, nothing would ever change that, but he had also learned to be sensitive to others moods and needs. When he thanked John for handing him a cup of Mrs Hudson's tea, she couldn't help but smile.

The party was pleasant, but strained. No one talked about Sherlock's shooting, or why John was living upstairs instead of with his wife. No one talked of the baby, or any sort of future plans at all.

"You seem better Molly, new boyfriend I see," Sherlock said.

"Why do you?"

"Teeth marks on your jaw, but you're not very sure of him. You've hardly gained a pound. In fact, I think you've lost weight."

"Thanks for noticing."

"Oh that wasn't a compliment."

Greg showed pictures of his kids which Mrs Hudson cooed over, and he did compliment her on her dress which was pink and new.

John seemed distracted, and Sherlock's eyes strayed toward him like they always did. It reminded her of what Tom had said about her. Whenever Sherlock came into the room, her eyes had followed him. If Tom had seen it, Sherlock couldn't help but notice her attention. She wondered if he had felt uncomfortable to be regarded in that way. Objectified, as if he were simply a thing that she wished to possess. She may have once thought of him that way, a little. Now...

John stood up then and said that it was past time for Sherlock to go to bed. He protested like the most accomplished five year old. John gave him a stern look, and he relented with a sly smile. Molly sighed to see how content he was. He might never look at her that way, but she was happy for him. It seemed that what Sherlock really needed was not a lover, but a friend.

* * *

Molly clasped the bars over her head with both hands as she rode upon Jim. He cried out and she smiled before collapsing down on top of him. Then he ran his hand up and down her sweat-damp back.

She rolled off of him then. Her hair was draped over his shoulder. She had been growing it longer ever since he admitted to liking the feel of it passing across his skin.

"You look beautiful!" Jim said.

She laughed. "You liar, with my hair across your face, you can't even see me."

"Oh I see you. I can definitely see you, Molly Hooper."

She ran her hand through her hair pulling it back against her neck. She could see the deep burgundy staining the bottom of the wine glass on the table. She had resolved not to come today, but at lunch Fiona had told her that she'd got engaged. All the other girls fluttered around her looking at the ring that was nowhere near as pretty as hers had been, and then someone had asked her when she expected to marry. There was a hush across the table, and the woman had apologized. She'd almost run to the flat then, downing the wine that he'd offered her, and kissing Jim as he reached out to offer her another.

She rolled onto her back, and stared at the ceiling. "What is my life?" She asked not expecting an answer, but Jim gave her one anyway, rolling on his side to whisper into her ear.

"Life is for the taking! It is a ripe fruit hanging before your eyes. Take it, eat it, enjoy it!"

"But..."

Jim ran his hand across the top of her breast. "You've always been afraid of life, little Molly. You hesitate when you should run. Don't be ashamed of who you are. Don't fear the power that life gives to you. Power is meant to be used. A life untested is a life wasted."

She'd wanted to stay over that night, but Jim said it would be too suspicious. So they sat in the living room sharing a pot of coffee as she put on her shoes.

"I'm thinking of moving," Jim said. Molly froze in the middle of tying her laces.

"Moving? Where?"

"The States."

"America? Why?"

"I have to be careful to keep my cover. Mycroft Holmes still suspects me. If only I could be sure that he wouldn't discover my identity, but if some fact should surface, if the real body of Quincy Hoehn should be found, then he could discover who I am. It's safer to leave."

"But I don't want you to leave!"

"Where is the body of Quincy Hoehn?"

"Gone, cremated. The morgue isn't designed for long term storage. If a body remains unclaimed, it is sent to be cremated."

"Are you sure? That was the last piece of evidence left to expose me."

"What do you mean?" Molly asked placing her foot back on the floor. Wait, did you cause the server crash at the hospital!"

"They had too much data about the real Hoehn. I had to get rid of it."

"But."

"Molly, I'm only doing what I have to do to protect our future. You trust me don't you?"

"But Jim."

He stared at her with that blank emotionless face that she hated. "Molly, tell me that you trust me."

She didn't like it. She didn't like what he was doing, but he was Jim, her Jim. "I trust you," she said.

Jim rolled his chair toward her then and touched her hair gently, smiling before giving her a deep kiss. He lifted himself up then with his powerful arms and lowered himself to the ground. Then he pulled her down beside him, pushing her onto her back as he suspended himself over her. The weight of his body pressing down on her causing her heart to race.

"I changed my mind. I haven't had my fill of you yet," Jim said. Then he put his mouth against her skin and delighted her over and over until the morning.


	17. Chapter 17

Christmas Day found Molly working a double shift. She usually worked on Christmas Day because she had no family to visit, and others appreciated the time off. She appreciated the solitude, and the food in the canteen was usually good then. She let herself have a slice of chocolate cake as a treat as she watched a group of nurses wearing reindeer-horn hats sing Christmas carols at the next table.

Her father had loved Christmas, and even those days when he'd been sick in bed with the malady that finally killed him, he'd insisted on wearing paper hats and listening to the Queen's speech. She thought of him as she watched it on the tiny telly in her office and she cried.

They'd rolled in the body of a woman in her early thirties earlier that day. She had been found in her flat by neighbors. The cause of death was listed as unknown, but Molly already could tell that it was suicide. She wheeled it over to the camera and took photographs before preparing her for the autopsy that would most likely occur later that week.

Molly wasn't the type who would consider suicide. You couldn't work with dead bodies day in and day out without knowing how unattractive you looked dead in your soiled clothes. She also knew that poisons weren't as painless as most people let on. Even so, she could understand the crushing weight that the future could hold when your dreams seemed impossible. She was thirty-six and her chances of having children and a normal family were passing away day by day. It wasn't as if she even liked children, but Da had so wanted their family to go on after Mum had died, and she had wanted to please him. He had never been sad about anything she'd done with her life though, and the day she'd got her degree, he'd said, was the happiest day of his life.

And having a family didn't seem to have made things easier for Greg Lestrade, or John Watson for that matter. The baby was expected any day, and as far as she knew, John and Mary were still estranged. If she and Tom had married they would most likely have ended up bitter and sullen with kids in tow. Damaging them with their sarcasm and bitterness. No, it was for the best. He was dating a young, ginger shopgirl now. She probably never called him stupid.

Later as she lay huddled on the couch in her flat with Toby on her lap, she considered visiting Jim. Her relationship with Jim wasn't healthy. They snuck around as if they were having an illicit affair. She used him to get off when she was angry or upset, and he manipulated her shamelessly to get her to do what he wanted. She had seen Sherlock do it to her often enough to know how it felt. She couldn't help the uneasy feeling she got whenever she heard that eerie mechanical laugh. That's why she was shocked when at work the next day she saw an image of Jim as he used to look on the screen. She might have thought it a prank if it hadn't been for that familiar voice, and the familiar words, "Did you miss me?"

Did you miss me?

At first she didn't realize that the broadcast was being sent everywhere. Whatever Jim was doing, it wasn't good and it was at least partially her fault. The image of Moriarty had his voice, his latest voice, and she realized that he must have been testing it on her to see which sounded the most like his old one.

She went to his flat, but no one answered. Then a tall, young, light-haired man came over to her as she stood at the door.

"Miss Hooper?"

"Yes?" Molly said suspiciously.

"Mr Hoehn sent me for you. He told me to give you this, and to say, 'Please'."

He had something black rolled up in his hand. She took it and unrolled it to find that it was her black scarf.

"Right this way, Miss," he said.

He opened a car door for her, and then drove her to a set of office buildings. Inside, they were mostly empty. They took an elevator down, and walked through a carpeted hallway to a room decorated tastefully with large oriental vases and potted plants. He gestured to another door, and she entered alone to find Jim waiting for her.

He was sitting beside a folding chair wearing a bespoke grey suit without a tie.

"Jim, what's going on? Why did you send that message?" Molly asked.

"Sit down, Molly. I'll explain everything."

Molly walked over and sat down in the chair. "You know Magnussen, the newspaper man who died recently under mysterious circumstances?"

"Yes."

"Sherlock killed him."

"Sherlock? But why...John?"

"Good. Very good. May I have the scarf?"

She handed him the scarf and he placed it on his lap before taking her hand and lifting it to a manacle mounted on the wall.

"Jim what are you..."

"Trust me," he said as he fastened her hand firmly in the shackle. He took her other wrist and attached it. "Comfortable? Is it too loose?"

"No," she said.

"Good," he replied kissing her deeply before placing a ball gag in her mouth.

"They were going to send Sherlock off to die," he said, "And I couldn't have that happen. Not before I had a chance to get my revenge."

Molly sat up and pulled at the shackles, but they were too strong.

"Operant conditioning if you're wondering. That's how I did it. Whenever you said that you trusted me, I rewarded you with sex. It was quite easy really, and enjoyable. You really are a lioness in bed."

Molly pulled at her restraints, but there was no getting out of them, and with the gag in, she couldn't even scream.

"I really must thank you, Molly, and not just for the new identity. I actually was insane, you see. Severe chemical imbalance that led me to be unpredictably violent. I have pills to control it now. It's thanks to you, you know. As I was I would never have been able to submit to treatment. I'd have probably killed my therapist."

Molly tried to scream, but only heard a muffled moan. Jim pursed his lips.

"Don't struggle, Molly dear. It will only tire you out before your precious Sherlock comes to rescue you. But first, a bit of psychological warfare."

Jim took a knife out of a pouch mounted on his chair, and he cut her black scarf shorter before tying it around his neck as a tie. He rolled over to a mirror and inserted a mother of pearl tie pin before returning to her side. "Won't Sherlock be surprised at how close we've become. I'd be surprised if he can't recognize your knitting as well as I can."

Molly leaned forward and pulled, but the wrist shackles fit as if they had been made for her. They probably had been.

"It wasn't all lies, Molly. It took quite a bit of time to get my memory back, but it's all there now. It's only facts though, no emotions, which is good. I'm a much better person now. Much less reckless. I left them a message that I kidnapped you, so stay put and be a good little hostage. Hopefully, I won't have to kill you. I had so wanted to take you to Paris as I promised. Goodbye, Molly love."

He gave her a kiss on the cheek then, and rolled out of the room ignoring her muffled screams as she pulled vainly at the straps holding her down.


	18. Chapter 18

Molly sat staring at the door through which Jim had left. She was in shock. Was the old James Moriarty back? She had taken a bit of psychology, and the studies mentioned how well a psychopath could deceive others. James had certainly done so to Kitty Riley. But had everything been an act? Was she simply another Kitty Riley to Jim?

But no, she couldn't place all of the blame on him. In this case, she had deceived herself. She had always held in her heart the dream of Jim, a perfect man who valued her for herself, found her attractive, and was, if she were to be totally honest, a little bit domineering. James Moriarty wasn't this man. Neither was he mild mannered Quincy Hoehn. She had made the mistake of seeing with her hopes instead of with her eyes. Had she ever seen the man at all?

Being bound up in the room gave her ample time for reflection. She remembered all of the times that she had overlooked danger signs to see what she had wanted to be true. As a doctor and a scientist, she should have known better.

After what seemed like a very long time, the door opened and John Watson peered in holding a gun. He left the door cracked as he entered looking around the room for threats, before walking over to her and attempting to remove the shackles. He searched around for a switch but couldn't find one.

"Molly," he said. "Do you know where the keyhole is? Sherlock taught me how to pick locks."

She shook her head. Then John swatted at his neck. He pulled back his hand to look at it, and then said, "Oh no!" before falling to the floor.

She caught a glimpse of something silver in his palm as he fell. Then a man entered and stood over John. He was a short dark-haired man in a grey suit whom Molly had never seen before. He had been concealed behind a curtain.

The man dropped to his knees and giggled maniacally. He was holding a blowgun in his hand which Molly found remarkably like the crime serials that she had watched as a child. He turned John over onto his back and pointed the gun toward him about to give him another dose when he fell dead after a quiet whooshing sound. Molly jumped in shock as his body hit the floor, trying to push herself to her feet, but being prevented by the chair. Then she looked up at the door to see Mary Watson. She was nine months pregnant and holding a gun with a silencer.

She checked the throat of the man she had shot, before rushing to John's side. She picked up the pin and sniffed it, wrinkling her nose.

"Hmmmf!" Molly said her mouth still gagged.

"He's okay," Mary said. "It was a tranquilizer not a poison."

She put her gun down on the floor beside John, and then leaned over to untie Molly's gag. "There will be others, so we must hurry, although we won't have so much to fear now that Moriarty is dead."

Molly stretched her dry mouth spitting out a bit of cotton before saying, "That isn't Moriarty!"

Mary turned suddenly and there in the doorway was Jim with a large silver gun. Mary looked down at her own gun on the floor, but Jim pointed his firmly at her abdomen and said, "Do you actually want to have that baby, Mary?"

Mary froze, glancing down at the speakers built into the chair where the voice had come from. Moriarty rolled forward as four other men poured into the room. One picked up the guns, and the others stood around Mary.

"Take Mrs. Watson to the small cell," he said. "John Watson can be placed in the white room until I need him."

Mary was escorted out, and John was dragged from the room. Jim rolled forward then and looked down at the dead man, "Pity. I went to a great deal of trouble to find the right actor to play me. We had an entire script worked out for Sherlock. Shame the little assassin had to off him first."

"Why are you doing this Jim?" Molly demanded. "You had a new life?"

"What life?" he said. "A pathetic cripple in an assisted living flat teaching part-time between visits by a randy spinster? That's not a life. Someone of my talents deserves much better. Then again, my former life was not ideal either. So much that I had to prove, so much effort! I have bigger and better plans now."

He pushed a button on his chair, and Molly's wrist shackles detached from the wall. She fell forward, and then realizing that she was free, she rushed toward the door only to be stopped by a hulk of a man who picked her up and tossed her over his shoulder.

"Come, Molly. Let me show you my new flat."

Molly was carried out to a van and strapped into the back. She listened as a wheelchair ramp was raised and Moriarty strapped himself in.

While the others were occupied, she tried to remove the shackles from her wrists, but they wouldn't budge. The van door was closed, and they were alone in the back. Molly looked at him.

"What is all of this, Jim? Your inventions couldn't have got you this much money this quickly?"

"Let us just say that I have acquired new friends who are very generous."

"But why the message? Why broadcast on all of the tellys in London?"

"London?" he said offended. "It wasn't just London. It also covered Western Europe, Australia, much of North America, China, Korea, India and Hong Kong. There was a glitch in Japan. Made it show a whisky commercial instead. Annoying screw-up that."

"But Jim, why? What is it all for?"

"It is the announcement to the world of my candidacy."

"Candidacy for what?"

"Why, World Strategos of course. I used to think so small, helping idiots do crime. I was a fitting foe for Sherlock perhaps, but Mycroft has the real power in that family, and now I shall surpass him. I evaded him in his own city and revealed a glimpse of my reach and understanding. Now people all over the world are remembering me and how I made miracles happen, and they want me. They want me to help them rule the world."

"Help them rule? What? Do you mean ...rival governments?"

"Yes, and others who have resources but lack the knowledge of how to use them. It is the twenty-first century. It is about time we had a world government don't you think?"

"You want to rule the world?"

"No, I want to help someone else rule the world. All that I have to do is wait for them to come to me. They can have the fame and the name in the history books as long as I have puzzles to occupy me, and wealth and comfort for the rest of my life."

The van stopped and Molly was escorted into a luxurious rooftop flat with a garden. They went up an elevator into a private suite of rooms. There was a large round bed in the center with a white fur bedcover on it. Around it were couches, all in white, and a curved glass window looking down on the private garden.

"Jim, how did you get all this? Moriarty's assets were frozen, and you haven't built up enough of your own money yet."

"I told you dear, I have new friends. This is all on loan for future favors to be rendered. Its previous owner won't need it anymore, and those who hold the keys need someone with the power to keep the money rolling in. Have a rest. Sherlock won't find us for hours yet. I led him and Mycroft on a merry chase.

When Jim rolled off into the bathroom, Molly tried to escape through the elevator. She pushed every button, but it required a key. The windows did not open, and no one could be seen in the garden below.

"There is no escaping this place, Molly. The man who once owned it, designed it well. Very few of the women he took actually wanted to be here."

"Is that what you plan to do? Take me... against my will?"

"Oh Molly, you know that I have no need to take what you will freely give."

Jim rolled over to where she was sitting on the immaculate wood floor. He grabbed her chin with his hand and pulled her head closer as he whispered right into her ear. "You're thinking about it now, aren't you? How I would feel pounding into you on top of those furs. You've been wanting it since the moment I put those shackles on your wrists. They're magnetic. I've put a metal strip on the headboard of this bed. I could stick you there and have my way with you. I know what turns you on, Molly. After all this time, you still can't resist a man who is, just a little bit, bad."

Molly pulled away from Jim and he laughed that eerie, mechanical laugh as he rolled away. She stared out of the window looking for Sherlock, or anyone, to come and rescue her, but there was no one.

When Jim returned wearing tan silk pajamas, he stroked her head fondly. "No one needs to know that you said _'Yes'_ , Molly. John and Mary saw how you were being held against your will. I could say that I forced you. Maybe give you some scratch marks on your thighs. You like a little force from time to time, don't you dear?"

"Stop!" Molly said pushing herself to her feet.

Moriarty laughed again. "Nighty, night love."

Jim climbed into bed then and slept. Molly spent hours looking for a way to escape before considering killing him with a pillow. She looked down at his sleeping face, slack and trusting. There were so many ways to kill a person, but she wasn't a murderer.

It made her sad that he thought so little of her, that he wasn't even afraid to sleep in her presence. This was all her fault. James Moriarty was back, and people would die. One man had already died! If only she hadn't been so wishy-washy. If only she had left his body to die, or told Mycroft Holmes, or had not believed him when he said he didn't remember. Tears flowed from her eyes, and she dropped down onto the floor staring out of the window at the garden until she fell asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Molly rolled over at the sound of her name. She was lying on the wooden floor. Her side hurt and her mouth felt dry. She looked up to see Jim already dressed looking down at her.

"Molly. Get up, Molly. Sherlock should be here soon," Jim said. "If you hurry you have time to shower first." Molly climbed to her feet and walked slowly to the bathroom. She locked the door.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red and her hair matted on one side. She removed her hair band and wet her fingers in the sink before running them through her hair to straighten it.

Behind her, hanging on a hook, was a pale, blue dress. It was pretty like a princess might wear with a high collar and satin-covered buttons. She knew that it would fit her perfectly. It would make her look the perfect damsel in distress. She decided against wearing it. Jeans and a jumper suited her better. They helped her to remember who she was.

Molly wasn't a princess. She wasn't a victim either. She was a doctor, a professional woman, and a bloody fool. She had released James Moriarty back into the world, and she had better damn well fix it.

She thought of the scars on Sherlock's back. She wouldn't let that pain be for nothing. She had to think of a way to stop Jim. She tied up her hair and washed her face. Then she looked at the door and lost all of her resolve.

"Maybe I should just stay here until this is all over," she said quietly.

A few seconds later, the door popped open, and Jim Moriarty rolled in.

"Did you really think that you could lock me out?" he said.

Molly picked up a ceramic soap dish and swung it at his head but he caught her arms.

"Molly dear, you had all night to bash my head in. Let's not play games now. You can't get out of this room unless I let you out. So put that down and come with me to meet your ...crush."

Molly put the dish down and turned away. "Sherlock Holmes is not my crush," she said. "You almost make it sound like you're jealous."

"I am jealous," Jim said.

Molly turned to look at him.

"I can't understand it. You've always had a thing for that gaunt virgin. How can you want him when you have me? It's the legs, isn't it? What if I cut them both off? Would that change how you think of him?"

"Why did you bring me here? Why didn't you leave me behind in that office? My usefulness is over now, so why not dispose of me?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Oh poor little Molly, you look so cute when you despair. I wouldn't leave you behind. I forgot you once before, and Sherlock used you to defeat me. Now you are mine, my very own good luck charm. I staged this confrontation in part to show Sherlock that _I_ own you now. To show him that he has truly lost."

"Don't hurt him."

"I don't plan to hurt him. I plan to kill him."

"But why? With your resources he can't possibly be a threat."

"Not a threat?" Moriarty said his voice rising in volume. "Sherlock Holmes, not a threat? One man, virtually alone, dismantled my entire network, and you think he's not a threat! No one would believe a word I said if I left him alive. Sherlock Holmes must die!"

He reached for a dial on his chair and lowered the volume. "Don't worry, after I kill him, I'll give you a treat. How about that trip to Paris that you wanted? And for me, I'll give you matching anklets to go with the bracelets that I made for you." He leered at her, and she backed up against the counter just as two men entered to escort them out.

The room that they entered looked like a ballroom. It had a white floor and a high gilded ceiling that was needlessly ostentatious and just a few steps shy of tasteful. What made it even more gaudy was the stage. Jim rolled up the ramp and motioned for her to sit beside him in a chair placed there for the purpose.

One man lifted the gag toward her mouth, but she begged, "Jim. Please don't make me use the gag. It's so uncomfortable."

"But dear, I don't want you distracting me when I talk to Sherlock."

"Please!" She said coyly hoping that she had some ability to manipulate him as well.

Jim frowned at her, but then relented. "If you wish, but if you speak once he enters the room without my express permission, then I will kill Tom."

"Tom!"

"I had planned on killing him anyway, but I know that you have a soft spot for pets."

One of the men pushed her down into the chair and placed her cuffs against the metal surface. Then a muttered noise came over a radio and the men walked off of the stage, one went toward a North door, and another toward the South.

Molly slid her wrist shackles across the metal arms of the chair to find that they weren't attached very tightly. The chair must be made out of the wrong type of metal. She could move! She put her arms firmly against the chair, hiding her advantage until it she could use it.

The men stepped out of the room to guard the doors, and they waited. She was too afraid after hearing his threat to say anything, so they sat in silence for several minutes. Then, Moriarty pulled out his phone and started playing a Beegees song. Molly turned her head to stare at him.

"What?" he asked defensively. "Would you have preferred ABBA?"

The door opened then and Sherlock strolled in, hands behind his back. He glanced around the room briefly before walking slowly toward, what she had begun to think of as the throne. Sherlock stared at Jim's tie and then his eyes flicked over to regard Molly. She realized that Jim was wearing her scarf just as he had the day before. She looked back at Sherlock and blushed.

Jim grinned. "Welcome Sherlock. Thanks for accepting my invitation."

"If by invitation you mean kidnapping my friends and their wives, then you have a poor understanding of hospitality."

"I notice that you don't count Mary as a friend. Realized that she was mine, did you?"

"Not really yours though, is she? Not anymore."

"I suppose you're right. She has gone a bit... independent. But don't worry. When it is proven how she killed a man in cold blood, she'll go to prison for murder. I have the witnesses and the gun all ready. It's not even a lie, although I must say that I don't have much respect for the British legal system if they let you out after killing Magnussen in cold blood. Bravo! on that by the way. That man had no class. And the power vacuum that you created allowed me to accelerate my plans by eight months. You can't believe how fast the money rolled in once I revealed that I was still alive."

"Is that how you were able to buy his flat."

"Buy? Oh this was a gift from his shareholders. This way, the transition of power is seamless." Sherlock had been walking slowly forward, but he stopped about ten feet from the stage. Jim was leaning forward to look down on him, glee evident in his face.

"Did you like my message?" he asked.

"Like?" Sherlock said. "I don't like anything that you do."

"Liar!" Moriarty yelled.

Molly watched the drama unfold while sitting back in her chair wondering desperately what she could do to help. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. She noticed John was behind them lowering a larger man down to the ground. Her eyes darted toward Sherlock, but he was carefully not looking behind them, and Moriarty was so engrossed with his argument with Sherlock, that he had eyes for nothing else.

John was here. Sherlock must have gone to rescue him first, and the two of them had come to confront Moriarty. John had the man unconscious on the floor, and he quietly started to close on Jim. Sherlock turned and began walking away to draw Jim's eye while John braced his arm on his knee and aimed his gun at James Moriarty's head.

In another few seconds, John would shoot Jim. But she knew that Jim had concealed a gun in his chair. His hand was on the trigger. He would likely still kill Sherlock even if he was hit.

Molly didn't want Sherlock to die. She didn't want Jim to die. She rose to her feet and slapped her wrist against the back of Jim's chair, then she pushed. The chair rolled off of the lip of the stage, but being stuck to Molly's wrist, the back legs stayed on the stage. The chair tilted over the edge though, so that Jim fell off of the stage and onto his face. A large bang going off as he triggered the gun on his way. Sherlock was in the air leaping aside to avoid the bullet while John was sprinting toward Moriarty.

Molly landed on her stomach, the chair dangling from her manacles until the front wheels hit the ballroom floor. Moriarty rolled to his side and glared back at Molly, but stilled as he felt the cold steel of John Watson's gun against his temple.

"There will be no coming back from this wound," John said to Jim moments before the police rushed into the room.

Sherlock searched the chair removing the gun and a knife before Jim was placed back into it.

"Well, you took you sweet time..." Sherlock began as Greg Lestrade walked up to Molly with a serious expression and said, "Molly Hooper, I am arresting you on suspicion of fraud, attempted murder, aiding and abetting a known criminal..."

John stepped forward, "But Molly was being held by Moriarty!"

"I have my orders," Lestrade said, and an officer took her arm and escorted her to the police van.


	20. Chapter 20

She was in the cold cell alone for hours. No one came down the hall, and she asked for nothing. She just sat on the bed looking at her feet. John had followed them out to the police van crying at the top of his lungs that she was innocent. Sherlock, however, had watched in silence. He knew how far she had gone. How much she had been compromised.

She was guilty, she knew, of many things. Wanting Jim was the worst of it, because she did want him. She wanted him to be a better person. She wanted him to not be a killer. She wanted him to get better. No one else seemed to want that, not even Jim.

She liked that she was alone now. No one was there to accuse her of all of the things that she'd done that she knew were wrong. No one was there to ask her to keep any more secrets.

That is until the door opened, and Mycroft Holmes walked in. He was wearing a dark striped suit with a red tie. He was immaculate from the top of his coifed head to the bottom of his leather brogues.

He looked very out of place against the bare grey walls, and yet she felt that he had made many such visits to cold cells to talk to lonely criminals like herself. He looked down at her without smiling. She looked up into his face without hope.

"It was an interesting choice you made saving that man's life. It is not the one that I would have made."

"No, I didn't think you would," she said.

"He is a dangerous man. The people whom he has alerted with his well-timed message will find a way to free him no matter where we keep him, that is if he remains alive."

"Will he remain alive?" Molly asked.

"That, Miss Hooper, will be up to you."

"What do I have to do?"

"The only way to keep James Moriarty from falling into enemy hands is for there not to be a James Moriarty."

"But I thought that you said that he wouldn't be killed."

"No. You must listen carefully. We don't have much time."

"I'm listening."

"You were owed a debt. You will return to your old life. Your employment will remain secure. No mention will be made of your... questionable recording practices."

"And in return?"

"You have a special relationship with Mr Hoehn, don't you? A position of influence. There is so much good that he could do for Britain and the world. His vocalizer has already begun to help others to live better lives. We are using it with soldiers injured in the war. Remarkable achievement, just remarkable. It would never have happened, but for you."

"I don't understand."

"When the time comes, you will know what to do." He turned toward the door and knocked twice with his cane. The door opened.

Molly stood up, "But, what can I do?"

He stood still for a moment with his back turned to her and said, "I do so abhor the destruction of a brilliant mind. I am counting on you, Miss Hooper. We are all counting on you."

Molly stared at the door wondering what he'd meant. A few minutes later, she was escorted out of the cells and given back her things including, surprisingly, the manacles.

John met her in the lobby.

"Thank God!" he said. "We've been trying to get you released all night. Sherlock finally convinced them to drop those false charges. Let Mary and I take you home."

.

Molly followed the news about the new Moriarty trial with interest. The entire country was galvanized by the fact that there had been not only one faked death, but two! The "Did you miss me?" tape was shown repeatedly on the news, and spawned several copycat memes on the internet.

Moriarty's return was everywhere even though the shrunken blond man in the wheelchair looked little like the dapper criminal in the smart grey suit of years past.

But the entire story was thrown into question before the trial could begin. New evidence suggested that the man in the wheelchair wasn't James Moriarty at all, but a noted inventor who had suffered brain injury and simply thought that he was James Moriarty!

Suddenly everyone was saying that they'd known all along. After all, he looks nothing like the old Moriarty. Psychiatrists debated on the news whether a catastrophic brain injury could make a person believe that he was someone else.

Sitting in her office, Molly recognized the face of the doctor from the private hospital where she had sent Jim. He testified that Mr Hoehn had arrived at there facility with no knowledge of his past. It was not only possible, but probable, that he would chose the identity of a famous criminal rather than believe himself an ordinary man. They had just announced Jim's release on grounds of insanity when Sherlock barged through the door. He glanced at the telly.

"You've seen it then. He got away, again! How is it possible that he is always able to slip out of the hands of the law? That is Moriarty. I know it is! Those eyes! How could I not recognize that mad man's eyes? But the paperwork says that he is Hoehn, and we must prove him to be Moriarty before they can reopen the case. But I will prove he is Moriarty without a doubt!"

"How will you do that Sherlock?"

"The apple. He bit into an apple when he came to visit me before. I collected a sample of his saliva and cheek cells! It was too valuable an opportunity to miss. I preserved the samples and froze them. Even now they are taking his blood for comparison. We have him now!"

"But Sherlock, what do you want me to do?"

"You know how to read a multi-chromosome analysis don't you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then I need you there, the day after tomorrow. The sample will go to an independent lab under guard. We will read the results together in a room with his lawyers and ours. I need you to confirm that the analysis is correct. Will you come."

"To the psychiatric hospital?"

"Yes."

"Will he be in the room with us?"

"Yes, his lawyers insist on that, but Lestrade will be there, and John. We won't let him touch you."

"All right," she said quietly. "I'll be there."

Sherlock left the room. The telly changed to a comedy program of some kind, but Molly didn't hear it at all. She was lost in thought.

* * *

The room had walls in a pleasant greenish-blue. It would have been nice if it wasn't for the deadly atmosphere inside. There were three tables. On the left sat Sherlock, John and Greg with their lawyer. On the right sat Jim, his psychiatrist, and his lawyer. At the main table sat the judge who had ruled on the trial.

Molly walked in and stopped, trapped by the glare of Jim's eyes upon her, before crossing to sit beside Sherlock. Jim's eyes followed her. He showed her a thin smile as he looked her up and down undressing her with his eyes. She felt exposed.

A courier entered then with an armed guard beside him. He handed a large brown envelope to the judge who examined that the seal was intact before opening it. There were three sets of identical papers. The judge kept one and handed the others to the bailiff who gave one packet to each table.

Sherlock grabbed their copy and held it in front of his face staring closely. Moriarty didn't bother to look, he simply smiled knowingly.

"Well then, that decides it," said the judge. "A ninety-nine percent match for Mr Quincy Hoehn. That should satisfy all future controversy."

"It's a trick!" Sherlock said rising to his feet. Greg held his shoulder to keep him from jumping over the table.

"Please remember, Mr Holmes, you are the one who requested this more conclusive test, and due to the unusual circumstances of the first trial, it was granted. You provided the sample of Mr Moriarty's DNA. The materials were guarded to and from the lab, and the original data provided to all parties. I am not a medical man, yet even I can see that the man sitting at that table is Mr Quincy Hoehn and not James Moriarty."

The judge pointed and all eyes turned to Jim who had a shocked look on his face. He reached for the papers and read them. "This is a mistake," Jim said. "I am James Moriarty." The judge shook his head sadly, and Jim's psychiatrist put a hand on his shoulder. He shrugged it off. "I am James Moriarty! This Hoehn identity was fun at first, but I am Moriarty! I am!"

The psychiatrist rose to his feet. "Your Honor. This procedure has obviously upset my patient. If you will excuse us, it is my opinion that we should get him back to his cell as quickly as possible."

"Of course," the judge agreed and a large orderly entered and pushed Jim out of the room. He kept screaming. "I am Moriarty! Tell them Sherlock! Molly! Tell them who I am!"

Sherlock was still staring at the results. "How did he do it?"

"How did he do what?" John asked.

"How did he get someone else's DNA on that apple? It was a trick, it had to be."

Molly looked up and saw a robin land beside the room's high window. It was building a nest.

.

A month later she sat in the same room listening to the sounds of baby birds chirping. The tables were gone. Instead there were green and brown couches arranged casually around the room. On the other side of the room, two men wearing green cotton uniforms played table tennis. Quincy sat quietly beside her. His head tilted sideways, his eyes lost in thought.

"They say the reason that I had no emotions associated with the memories was because they weren't real. We've been working on my medication, finding the right dose to keep me calm. It controls my moods, but they say that I'll likely never get my true memories back."

"Quincy, the past is the past. You have a whole new life before you. You could do anything! Yes, you've lost a lot, but you've gained so much. You're a genius. Just think of what you can accomplish?"

"Jim, call me Jim. I know now that I'm not... That was just a fantasy, but I still like it when you call me that."

"All right...Jim."

"I really have no idea what I'll do when I finally get out of here."

"You can always teach. Professor Quincy Hoehn, engineering genius!"

He laughed. "A bit of a step down from Ruler of the World, don't you think?"

"Who would want that job?" Molly said. "It would just be work, work, work. Besides, didn't you promise to take me to Paris one day? I'm still waiting."

"You might have to wait a long time. A professor isn't the best paying job you know."

"Then you'll have to keep inventing. Any ideas?"

"Well there are those super strong magnets. I turn them on and off with an electric field. There are many places where they might be useful. Maglev trains for example."

"You know, Jim. I still have those wrist cuffs that you had made for me," Molly said.

Jim raised his head and his nostrils flared.

"Really?," he said.

"And I'm knitting you a scarf. What color do you want?"

Jim's mouth fell open and he looked at her breasts. "I don't care what color it is, just make sure it's long and thin and strong."

Molly blushed straight up to the top of her head.

.

As she walked out onto the moist Spring air, she breathed a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be going well for her. This was confirmed when a black car rolled slowly past and a beautifully dressed woman nodded at her as though she were a colleague.

Later, as she rode home on the tube, she remembered the time before Sherlock's fall. Quincy had wanted his death to mean something. He had asked that his body be used to advance science, and she wouldn't dream of going against such a heart-felt wish by sending it to be cremated.

A company called Cryolite was attempting to make chambers to preserve bodies indefinitely. They had asked for a dead body for testing but their request had been tied up in red tape. When she'd found them one, they were happy to give her samples and access to their data.

They had asked for a multi-chromosome analysis, not just a SNRP test to confirm Quincy's identity. There was only one lab in London equipped to do that test, and she knew who worked there. It was but a matter of minutes to switch the samples when the technician stepped out for a cup of coffee.

Before she'd left the hospital, Jim had asked her what she thought of marriage. She had said, that it was very nice, but she was perfectly fine remaining single. She liked Jim, and every day he was becoming more and more like the man of her dreams. But married people were supposed to be honest with each other, and she had secrets that she could never tell him.

Secrets like how, even though they were now good friends, Sherlock still made her heart jump into her throat whenever he talked to her in that low voice of his. Or how close Jim had come to being killed by Mycroft Holmes. Or that even though the world now claimed that James Moriarty was dead and the second Moriarty trial had been a hoax, the man known as Quincy Hoehn really was James Moriarty. No one must ever know that, not even Jim himself.


End file.
